Cigarettes and Prada

She stands with a cigarette 

in her left hand, Prada clutch in her right. 

Her razor sharp raven black hair

blows in the city breeze, brushing across her 

plastic sunglasses. 

Her pout is edgy, candy apple red

against porcelain skin. I walk across 

the street to talk to her. I want to tell her that 

even though we have never met, I love her. 

Suddenly, a large man wearing 

sagging jeans and threadbare sweatshirt

grabs her by the waist and throws her in the back of his truck. 

The raven hair shifts and shivers as he straps her 

to the wall of the truck and shuts the door.

I notice her glasses have fallen off, and 

her clutch has flopped open like an old book. 

But she doesn’t pick them up; 

she just holds her cigarette.