Pauline

Who will catch her moans, secrets spill like home brew, the song chills her bones, hair a screed of wheat, shines luminous but under curfew, its the old disease, lavender linen and Eau de Cologne, she whispers to a ravaged few, her feelings are never slow, a granny who sings for free, the song always the Blues, truth no concessionary, than a blonde field cloaked, with an early dew, her drink's rum and coke, it won't leave her ruined, down a public telephone, or make the news, a poet explodes.