Queenie

In a room that creaks, listening to the rain, she turns to speak, this is not my tune, she says, the song is too crude, the walls are washed green, the moon gyrates, it knows where she's been, Europe's sunlit avenues, not somewhere seedy, soaked in the Blues, wrapped in a cotton sheet, she examines her nails, her long gait and knees, outside's a curfew, the bed's like a cradle, you can smell her perfume, you can smell the sea, sometimes she rages, from a life uneven, love marks her day.