Tuning Machine

Tuning Machine

She likes to shout

from broken windows,

looking at the street

sideways,

brick throwing emotion

in a ginger fueled rage.

Blistered concrete syllables

fall on def ears,

a woman in red

smirks under her skin;

tuning the D-string

of a strangers new guitar.

Adding volatility,

as if she needs any more.

And her voice cracks 

like ice in vodka,

she was never prepared

to feel like this.

Like this.

But she cant back away,

not now

not now,

only pick up the pace

and make her listen.

Wanting her fingers

or the tuning machine.