she sits on the park bench
secluded by the willow tree's shroud
as still as the stones beneath her feet

clutching tight a scant bouquet
of lilies and camellias
smelling by comparison so sweet

and if you moved, she'd follow
the path of something cherry-bright
and cherry-red
she's smiling now, replete

waiting for a visitor
pearly whites behind red lips
awaiting in the air the scent of meat