Keepsakes

I met her on the corner of the parking lot.
She looked like a beautiful bellydancer with
one of those exotic foreign names like
Entiesca or Meraille or Serane or Betsy,
you know what I mean.
Trippy high heels and long red dress
high collar and long hem
with a flash of riding boot peeking through.
She had a cigar in her lips
a sneer in her body
a bruise on the thigh I never saw.
When she saw me, she laughed
then she threw her ring to me.
I'm going to die someday, she said
and baby you'll never see me again
so I want you to have a keepsake.
I turned the ring over in my palm
a cheap gaudy bauble a dime a dozen;
what am I to do with this, I demanded.
She laughed again louder boreder
kid, toss it to another passerby
continue the spiral
flush it down the drain
wear it on your finger
all the same to me.
Seems like there ain't much in life
that's not the same as that ring.
She left me staring at her butt
swinging down the cracked old sidewalk
heels tapping out the years sadly.
She was right; I never did see her again
maybe she died maybe she cried
maybe she found another ring
for the old one's buried beneath a rosebush
guess she was right about that one too.