on top of the seat
she’d sauntered so
earlier in the evening
as empty as that bottle
of beer in front of her
she knew she’d find
a sucker to which
she’d empty the next
bottle or two from.
as the cigarette dangled
between her fingers, just
inches from her face,
she laughed a coy laugh,
not really even hearing his words,
just watching his eyes as he
panned down her profile with
the attention of a little boy
seeing his first breast, his
first thigh, his first love,
his first drink, his first.
she wondered aloud to anyone
that would pay attention, or
sober enough to still have their
faculties to give two *****
about a stranger carrying on
about whatever she was talking about.
sometimes it was about music, and how it
made her feel like a kid again, dancing
in the rain, wet from the water, cold
from the wind.
sometimes it was about her dad, who left
when she was just a child to be with his
mistress, his whore, that ****er.
sometimes it was about nothing, sometimes
about something, sometimes it was about
everything, sometimes it was just sometimes.
Eventually she conned a beer or two from some
innocent boy looking for his hand to be held
in the darkness of a cruel world, a crowded
room, a smoky bar.
and she’d saunter off,
not so elegantly anymore,
as evening turned to over,
and she was emptier then ever before.