Midnight lady

I watch her sit on a trolley,
at midnight,
limbs flung carelessly about.
She casts a non chalant glance at the approaching man,
and shrugs with her eyes.

She stretches her garish red painted lips-
the whites sparkle under the streetlight;
the smile doesn't reach her eyes.

The crowd of words out of her mouth
as if in a rush to get out 
the faux familiarity of a bargain hunter,
this deal is no idle banter.

She looks down her platform and sizes him up,
and speaks volumes with her eyes.

No gentile preenings of the housewife,
to her, the crutches of femininity have been denied
and as they've fallen by the wayside
she lives, she breathes, she thrives.

She needn't suppress a sneeze
and laughs as loudly as she pleases-
depending on none but her own
body, her limbs, her mind
she lives as she will die:
on the streets, in the public eye.

He, sitting besides me, in the car seat,
casts her way a withering glance
rolls up the glass pane
And gives me, with his eyes, a reprimand.