Stacy...

Stacy


Stacy is thirty and five. She is pretty
She's been living in her small apartment for years
Stacy loves daisies and long walks in the city
And no one has ever seen her turn to tears…

…Stacy buys milk at this store at the corner
She lives all alone with her cat and her dreams
And every night, when she tries to get warmer
No one is there to put a kiss on her lips

When she was young everything seemed so easy
Whole life was ahead and she smiled all the time
And every day was so clear and pleasing
And every poem would have rhythm and rhyme

Stacy still writes, spilling thoughts on paper
Thoughts full of grief and a despairing tune
And sOmetimes, at night, she wakes up all the neighbors
Screaming through tears at the indifferent moon

Stacy is ill with unbearable sorrow
She has often thought of crossing the line
She doesn’t believe in a happy tomorrow
And drowns her life in the bar, drinking wine...

...Her favorite place is across from the house
Just hole in a wall full of hobos and flies
She seats there in shadows, still and quiet like a mouse
Far from an action and questioning eyes

She seats in the dark, watching life as a movie
She thinks, she’s too bad of an "actress" herself
She’s tired of fighting; she is tired of proving…
Her heart turned to dust and her feelings went deaf

She finishes night drunk and well into morning
Comes back to her flat for two hours of sleep
She thinks there’s no exit; she thinks there’s no turning;
There’s none to hold on to and there’s nothing to keep…

…This morning all tenants of 100 W. Truman
Were restive and buzzed just like bees in a hive
Last night, on the street, car has hit a young woman
She died on a spot; she was thirty and five…