The Hair Stylist Loses Her Battle

All day she heard its
anchovy buzz, the static sizzle
of pepperoni, an answer to the S.O.S.
in her gut. The click-clack of inner
pops as her stomach
tuned in that pirate
radio tower, intoning,
in frantic Morse code,
a forbidden word: pizza.

Now, still purple smocked,
hair clips snapped to her pocket,
as the El whisks her past fractures,
she sucks grease from her
French tips.

My words were: 1. radio tower, 2. umbrella, 3. bus; 4. hair clips, 5. pizza. These were items I saw on my way to catch a bus downtown. OK, so some of them were two words, but I was in a hurry. The woman is someone I saw on the train.