There’s half an empty glass of a Cuba Libre
From a six dollar bottle of rum and a
Dollar Store bottle of fizzless Coke.
Tonight she’s not even cliche enough
To get drunk.
A fellow once told her that writers only
drink from square glasses.
She’s like a Band-Aid waiting to be ripped off.
Almost 16 years to the day that he
Served her the papers
Which she has had laminated and uses
Over and over
Dry erasing men
Again and again.
She stares at the Rorschach figures
In her apartment wall plaster
And in it she sees a dancing unicorn and the
Profile of Christopher Walken.
She writes about highway memorials with
waxy plastic faded roses.
She lives on the edge
stealing DumDum suckers
from an unknowing bank teller.
The oddities of life interest her like
her one-eyed cat,
her church that provides
condoms in the bathrooms,
And the bus stop anti-homeless benches
with dividers in the middle
so no one can lay down and rest,
She remembers her recent past of
Laying down on a cement ledge
In a flourescent orange sweatshirt
At the Valley County, Idaho Jail
For a DUI of prescription drugs
And eating curled up fried bologna or
Some kind of pressed meat products
And rice krispies and powdered milk
Early in the morning
Before she signs a release bond
And waits two hours for a bus back to McCall.
Copyright © 2018 by Carolyn M. Bevington. All Rights Reserved.
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