Her lipstick is the blood red
of a days end. Draining slender fingers
claw for heaven, stirring muddy
the floor under the pearly gates.
The jazz she breathed rattled high
around the edges of her cup of years;
the roulette wheel fails to let her
secure a winning.
The wrong of her makes the pain
of others right. The great she owns
lifts up the down from her song;
her loss heals everyone.
Songs are tears looking for faces.
Roger Singer 