I see you waiting on the crocodile lawn,
the perfect blonde, my Lauren Bacall.
Your camel trench coat belted against the cold,
teeth knocking at my locked door.
To have and have not, a Lucky Strike.
Holy Mother how you smile!
I see you at the end.
Your skin is splitting face,
your hair is slipping free, skeletal
leaves in winter and there’s nothing.
The Purple Hermit 