Delilah’s silent look

is as bitter as a headache,

and as silent as the engine

of a 1953 Cadillac Coupe.

Her slender hands

dig down the depths of that

Mulberry satchel,

and once her cigar box lies unfastened, she quakes no more—

Delilah is frantic no more.

She now gazes at me through brittle eyelashes,

and nicotine-stained nails, her fingers like

fetters...

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