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.