Unseasonal (Poetry)

Here is the girl not dressed for the season
her winter-white skin
legs mottled and raw
skirt riding high
as a sail as she scurries
out of the street and into the store

The wind it is harsh and it makes the day bitter
her clothes are of cotton
her hair blowing wild
no hat nor a scarf
no warm woollen mittens
some bony-kneed orphan or runaway child?

But she’s there buying perfume — a bottle of Dior
her credit card wallet
reveals a royal flush
(borrowed or stolen?) she
spends like a junkie
flits counter to counter caught up in the rush

Then it’s lipstick and bangles, a handbag by Cardin
(an end-of-line bargain)
plus Vogue magazine
with her scuffed Nike trainers
and brittle blonde hairdo
is she poor little rich girl or slum estate teen?

He appears at her elbow — the slick store detective
calm, unobtrusive
he leads her away
while customers whisper
or pretend not to notice
but pound for a penny there’ll be hell to pay

What happens next is a hazy illusion
as reality slips
like a thief through the door
the girl’s summer ghost
ill-equipped for the weather
melts into the dark
and is seen nevermore