Sitting on the bar stool
lips stained from your small-talked drunken red wine
glassy eyed and all alone
staring willfully at your fingerprinted wine glass.
You order another...
swirling not quite the same as before...
you glance around the smoke filled alcohol-stenched room,
there stand surrounded by the sound of jazz
what you thought to be an illusion....
that muscle bound new age sensitive man
you were always searching for,
you manage to force your pathetically-rehearsed flirty smile
as from the stool
cringing, cursing, hoping that
in someway -
you could fall deep beneath the covers of your bed-sheets.
If you've any comments on her poem, Rebecca
Papprill would be pleased to hear