The gal's got torn stockings,
her mother's jacket,
and a smile borrowed from the dollar store.
She's ready to go,
up for adventure,
and knows where to get a good cup of coffee for ninety-nine.
She's gone past marching
and does the fox-trot to her own personal drummer.
She's greedy for a knowledge
she's not exactly sure where to find.
The crumbles of her day-old muffin
linger on her pink lips.
She licks
them away absent-mindedly
as she reads lines of poets she's never known
but speak to her heart.
This is all she needs,
all she desires,
an hour
or two
or three
or four.
She doesn't notice the blending into moonlight
and persistent cough of waiters.
How she loves Keats!
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