long and lean, bony really,
Olive arranges herself languidly in the coarse brown chair.
her tied dyed dress made of sheer scarves reveals bare legs, furry armpits and all
her hair is a dark-massed orchestra wildly out of tune.
she's demanding uppers and coffee and, getting up, heads down the hallway calling out
"Is this your bedroom?" and her best friend Samantha, so damn voluptuous
in her pink quilted vest, leans over to me, she's whispering assurances:
"It's all right, her mother's an opera singer" but
I don't feel any better.
~ regan lee
sometime in the 1980s
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