Black

She wakes up

At fifty

Slightly dressed

In shocking black

To mark the passing

Of chances for wellbeing

Missed

And if she weds again

It will be without

The pretence of white

She tosses her wild

Jet hair at convention

And gawking passers

Who see nothing

Beyond the black

And body flaunting

And if they are

Displeased

She is glad

For having done

With pleasing

She maintains custody

Of eyes cast upwards

An ipod filling her ears

With sounds

Of her own choosing

No longer hearing

The negative wave

Of the radio

She shields her hidden

Soul from all invasion

Only the invited now

Are admitted

It is the man of the road

To whom she offers

Her lips

For a brief taste

Of the sweetness

Only he can recognise