The girl in the red apron
And the don’t-fuck-with-me combat boots
Bears five searing plates
Atop the webs of veins and scars
That line her outstretched arms.
As she effortlessly ambles
Toward her party of inebriated bikers,
Three dozen one-dollar bills
And a letter from her lover,
Three dozen one-dollar bills
And a letter from her lover,
Scrawled on a Juicy Fruit wrapper,
Burn hopeful holes in her apron pocket.
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