Thursday, February 21, 2013

The same old story

Yes, she cries all the time,
soft spring of salt
From the edges of her eyes,
Trying to drink the memory
Of his demise out of her head
But can’t,
The memory too much like
A tattoo with each color
Un-faded, from the pale
Finger on the trigger
To the blast that casts
Deep shadows into
That motel room
As bits of his anatomy
Make a mosaic on the wall
Behind the bed
Pistol bounding on the carpet
From his opening hand
Sjhe strolls through the bar
With eyes fogged,
The room always full of strangers
She seeking new faces
Each time to buy her drinks
Her tale told over and over
Against the back drop of
Cheap Trick on the jukebox,
Her tears glittering red
From the bar lights
Like blood on her cheek,
A convincing rendition
Winning her sympathy for a night
And maybe company
Back in the same motel
She claims it happened,
And me, always listening in,
Trying to find a deviation
From telling to telling,
Always willing to buy her
A drink
When the strangers run out.

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