Paris was vibrant,
the outskirts, charcoal.
In dark corners
the women in red
lifted skirts for men in top hats.
Manon
was a demi-monde beauty,
scarlett dressed and wide-eyed,
Harlot,
They called her,
The men with grasping hands
who were always hungry.
An animal appetite
behind human eyes
A beast in a suit.
If you listened carefully you could almost hear a hint of a growl
from the corner of his mouth
The sweat on his brow
window-wiped
with a lipstick blood handkerchief
Discarded
Before he returned home to his wife.
The silk strings on Manon’s corset were
always loose,
Ready for eager fingertips,
That were too rough.
