Delores Del Rio takes a walking tour
of my body. Unlike most vagabonds
in sturdy boots and a stained rucksack,
Delores wears a red dress and slingbacks.
She hums the arsonist's theme
as she taps one coy organ after another
and makes them tawdry with flame.
When she gets a little tired,
she sits on my spleen and smokes.
If she glanced up, she'd see
two aspirin careening toward her
like the lights of a very small car
destined to disappear in a fiery crash.