My bookmark lauds pulp fiction, some dark froth

called The Amazing Story of Carrie-Daughter of Sin.

Carrie’s image appears front and center—

50’s blonde hairdo, arched brows a la Joan Crawford,

startling crimson lips, cone-shaped bra

a statement beneath that tight red sweater,

the classic yellow pencil skirt, a hint of a slit

up the side. One hand on her hip—elbow

jutting out—the other resting on a bus stop sign.

 

Behind her, a man leers from a black car. He looks

gin-spent and ready to lean on the horn.

C’mon, girls, we’ve all been Carrie at least once,

tempted by the lure of the next bus, or a guy

who promises the moon dolled up in a fancy box.

Yeah, I’ll take care of you baby, he assures,

revving his Chevy Bel Air.  Then he disappears

down the long road. No goodbye, not even a wave.

I swear Carrie winks at me as I turn the page

of the latest mystery I’m reading.

We’re both trying so hard to be good.