Tonight I'm posed and popping like a peacock. I'm pressing flesh, I'm smiling big, my spinning head sings "Stop, just stop". Cause what used to calm me down.
The sputtering blink of the street lamp. Makes you taller, then shrinks you, then splits you in half. So you're trailing yourself on your walk to the pay phone.
Your husband. He drinks like a writer. But he writes like a banker. I hope his pens all run dry. . You watch him from your cave in the corner. Full moon eyes flame and flicker.
Your bearings are shot. And your car don't work like she used to. Your friends don't call. And they don't even bother with offering excuses. . Your TV is on, but it's always on.
I caught you caroling and giving grief. Thought you were cannon-balling after me. I let your actions speak for themselves. And wished you well. . But you're a mirror I cannot avoid.
Crooked days come bundled up in bunches. They break your brain like a branch. And push you out here asking after something. You should know I don't have.