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It takes a long time
to bleed your own
and she
made me see red
running down milk
stained skin just
by standing there,
honky-tonk
band polluting the
dance floor with
tourists yet
sounding very
much like
her very own
backup band.
When I congratulated
her, she asked why,
then unbelieved
as I told her what
she had.
Suddenly
the drummer had
a double bass and
the guitar feedback
drowned the rest as
her mouth moved
forcefully enough
to fleck spit,
to hide shame,
to turn and
walk onto a
dancefloor
where tourists
in shiny shitkicker
boots were baffled
by the opening
strains of "Wipeout"
while she strutted
out the door,
adamant that
she did not, could
not, would never
have had an
opportunity to
get vee-dee.