She had copper penny eyes; she spent
summer trading glances for drinks.
At the local they called her
Kiss Chase Kate, they sold her
pints on the promise of a peek,
a snatch, a snapshot carved into a keyhole,
a freezeframe of the zoetrope, and
though she thought she’d left that all behind,
behind the bikeshed, she obliged;
the town was small and
there wasn’t much else, besides.