For Jenn.

She was wearing crimson high heels
little black dress, shimmering paint on her lips
she was ready for the party
with her noose and blue glass pipe.

Then she went to the diner
and sat down in a corner booth
not sure what she was doing there
a cigarette between her fingertips.

A young man came and sat beside her
asked her about the redness round her esophagus
she said, 'I wish I could remember,'�
and took a gulp of her lukewarm coffee.

She had flashing images in her mind
of rope, wrenches, sockets, tool kits and a
nineties Plymouth on white cement
but she couldn't recall how she'd acquired the rash.

The sun bled in through the cracks in the Roman shades
casting a yellow glow on the oily coffee
strawberry cheesecake, plus dead cockroach centerpiece
wilting flowers and sugary tabletop mess.

'What are you doing here?'� the young man asked,
'don't you have a son to go home to?'�
The woman smeared her lipstick, she said,
'I thought I did, I think I did; I might.

'I remember sockets,'� she muttered, 'wrenches,
there were tools everywhere, old rags, oil,
white cement, stains and things. I was in a
garage. I don't know why.'�

She told him about her son, twelve
and her family and the things that she loved
she told him of problems, her plights
when she was finished, he smiled.

'You know where you are now,'� he told her.
And she agreed, pushing away her coffee
'I never knew what it was like,'� she whispered,
and screamed and screamed'unholy.

She was wearing crimson high heels
little black dress, shimmering paint on her lips
when he bumped into her feet, swinging high
dark garage in the middle of the night.

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