Zoey tip-toed
past the ten toes
of that horrid man -
his hair stuck in blue-black across
his round face -
to where her dress
crumpled to the floor,
too late to save it
from the wrinkles,
too late.
A minute later,
shoes in hand,
she slipped out the door,
and told herself
it was all the same -
sleeping with her ex-husband
or some prick
from Trenton.
Whatever pays the rent.
She has a daughter
in New Hampshire
growing up with
someone else's name.
Walking home that night
in the spotty light
of neglected streetlamps,
Zoey saw a tattoo -
something tribal -
in a window down on Central,
and decided life was just as it should be.
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