There are girls like her, in the glacial north.
They have the patience of roadworks, they learned
to fold flowers and wait.
No bared teeth here, worried in flesh;
she lacks my predilection for howls.
She sits with Penelope’s quiet hyperbole
and weaves the downy duvet of home.
When his pinball rattled my neons,
I pitied her silken devotion, but
there is something in her poise which sticks
now that the gaudy is gone.