Old Lack, dressed in black,
Boney buttons all down her back,
Broken needle stuck in one track, Old Lack.
Absent will, she sucks up dusty juice,
A something nothing cannot show her, Old Lack.
Lost her name so we can’t ask her how;
Forged her face—she can’t smile true now, Old Lack.
Old Lack, warming her hands on ice;
Old Lack, racked by the window pane.
Her eyes reflect reflecting cones of light.
She gulps back black spittle, Old Lack.
Old Lack, missing a shingle up top;
Old Lack, minus a tickle below.
Can’t be helped: her ululating wail
Tonguing night right to the echo’s crack.
Hunched in her one-room flat, she heard me walk,
Sensed my casual shadow passing, Old Lack.
Hates my presence till she’s gagging for it;
Loathes my voice, rapt like a devotee.
Sniffing out some telltale whiff, she creeps
Up close and close to nose her old breath, Old Lack.
Worries words, picking them through and through:
Shrill lilting wins a shilling, Old Lack.
Plots my itinerary like a stalker,
Hugs my image to her like a lover:
I’m the one she never can get over,
Old Lack, Old Lack, Old Lack.
