Of December

In a pub of pensioned men
and stale decor,
two newly women enter:
one fires the smile.

She's young and tough
and her hair says she's trying too hard
and she's occupying clothes
that leave so much caress undressed:
she's raw, her own self-portrait.

But that look was mercantile:
he was about to buy a drink.
Yet the smile was welcome,
like the scent of shocked basil
on a humid summer day.