Black Dress

this is a story
about a black dress
fulla girl;
standin in front of a mirror
on friday, with the sun coin-slotting
between skyscrapers reflecting back
over shoulders draped with a menagerie
of curly bullets just waitin
for shooting gallery hearts.

it's a
black dress fulla girl
a mess a' curls
a purse
& some pearls -
all driftin toppa heels
that're clickin metronome, she's
leavin
the house
with frantic
jazz feet
dancin
the stairs
down
to the street
makin a

runway

outta
cracked
con-
crete,

callin a cab and crawlin in, say,
"honey, where you goin and honey,
where you been,
all my life?"

she'll say,
"take me someplace the drinks're colder
than an undertaker's christmas
and all the guys, they got knives in their eyes
cause tonight, ain't nobody cuttin me off,

but i want 'em all to try."

the sun's last shadows're getting lost
in the rising night, and the streetlights
they file by the windows,
marking time in puddles of bright
to the tune of, "aint it a shame
that girl's not mine."

then she's passing the doorman with a kiss
on the cheek and as she breezes (Ssssssss.)
honey by, the whole bar comes alive,
like the back-beat'd been stuck
waitin on the street
and just made it in on the heels
of that black dress fulla girl.

you follow her in,
cause you wanna know
what it looks like,
when she dances,
and there she is,
turning hearts after heads;
she's flyin with doves strapped
to her ankles and the sparrows
that're shakin their wings
at the ends of her wrists
they're drawin you closer to this stare
that's drillin slugs, droppin a lug
like you, at the feet of her legs laid bare -
& those pearls are sliding
against her collarbones faster
than the sweat that's beading on your chest
like your ribcage were startin to cry
for the bird she just set free,

& you're thinking,
"well I got
Long Piano Hands And The Light Fingertips
hell, i gotta touch that'd shiver frost
off the moon's hips," but she ain't having
none of it, cause the prey,
well,

it don't pick the tiger.

yeah, she shuts you down,
blows you apart like the fourth of July
and she never leaves no flowers
on the graves of the fallen, naw,
she just lets 'em lie, stringin a trail
of wounded breadcrumbs and busted
bowery bums, all the way to the door.

the survivors, they gather on barstools,
& order another round and you're
floor bound and damned if she's not
what you waited for, but she wasn't asking
or offering,
cause black dresses,
fulla girls like that -
they only show up
to say
goodnight.