Grease Monkey Blues

He said, I hope
you and yours are well. She couldn’t
tell him anything. She never responded with
a word. How could he know that she is
that woman who exists in filth? The garage
soaks into her skin, so she so often smells
motor oil. The arthritic hands of hers are always
outlined in dirt. Fingernails that never come clean,
see she’s always scratching at something.
It is something
under her skin: a seething infected slither. Everyone
overlooks that she is just a small
woman with fine sensibilities working
like a man, so her fit, fay, frame
falters for being forgotten.

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