On Parade

She stands outside smoking, red
hair cropped like a Futurist painting,

poised like Gavaroche,
Peter Pan, the Artful Dodger,
mistaken for a boy on the bus.

She is always on her guard,
as if I would bite her tongue.

I extend a word forward,
she takes to steps back

into a nicotine attic
and I try to follow her

a bull dancing for a flashing flag.

SM