The Mink

She's in the 60s, 70s,

Madison or Park.

Her brittle frame dashes

Against the flashing hand,

Mink swishes just over the slush.

Then she's also on the Q,

Glides through the doors,

Heads turn at the extravegence.

It's only a subway, not a car.

Lucky for her the world repeats,

She can wear that long mink coat,

But the paint has melted,

Along with her face,

Dribbling down her chin,

Onto her mink.