Austen’s Smile

Austen’s face, pressed against my prejudiced
palm, itches to change hands. You need
her warmth to line your pocket, a patch
against the driving rain, a small smile
against your soaking thigh. Her smile
may afford a night’s respite; her smile
may buy you oblivion. Who am I to judge
your choice of pockets to line?
I can but judge my own.

5 thoughts on “Austen’s Smile

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