The Last Customer.

She sat cross legged on the bed, kimono half open
exposing empty horse traders’ purses, her face paler
than streetlamps she had been standing under most
of her life; and since her mouth was a bleeding dagger
slash going gangrenous, I kissed her talcum dusted
forehead. She grabbed my hand with her soiled claws,
asked me if she still was beautiful? I said yes.
This lonely old woman, fucked a thousand time and
loved by no one, shrilly laughed didn’t believe me but
like to hear lies told. We drank whisky and I stayed
the night, at dawn when illusion can’t stop the flood of
truths, she was dead and I had to hire some old drunks
to carry her coffin and when the vicar spoke I tried to
remember her face.