Sugar

Bottle blonde twirls behind circus trains,
glaze-eyed, on the L.A. boulevard;
neo-grunge tablecloth skirt glides past
burger joints, tattoo parlors, sundae shops
TVs blasting reality smackdowns
from some tech store window. Too steep
for a glossy hi-def plasma flatscreen
if she keeps lusting after stardust.
A locket grazes her collarbone scars;
neon ballerina flats and clashing prints
defect eyes from scars. Chipped polish, scars
veiled by fingerless gloves, double-stacked rings
and a wristwatch clutch a recycled-paper
coffee cup and grainy tabloid photos.
She ransacks her replica Vuitton:
cell phone, Chapstick, syringes, pamphlets,
Danielle Steel paperback, smack sugar.
razor for a quill. Smack. Cuffs for bracelets;
Blue-red kaleidoscope whisks her away,
cruising over gum wads and glitter,
still chasing the circus from the backseat.