Most elegantly,
and deliberately,
pissed,
she's passing out in a heap,
slopped over the top,
dead cigarette
stuck in between two moody fingers.
Mirrors from afar
paint vastly
past recollections of herself.
The leopard changing pots.
Another waiter, apron on his hand,
comes up to look,
and mockingly depict her state
of affairs, as 'fucked-up'.
It's closing time.
The blinds keep dropping down.
The music is no longer there.
Well-bodied and well-beered,
the lady at the corner table
looks absurd, and totally out of place.
Reality is ragged like 'Maple Leaf'.
Good rabbits in a row.
She is a fixture.
Twilight comes in bows and boughs,
and nightingale's high notes.
Whose fault is it
that every lover's vows
run sweet, but don't deliver?
This one's for the road.
She's not yet over:
she's an overette.
So good for thinking
through a cigarette.
2015.
An Overette
© Copyright: Андрей Тюков, 2015
Свидетельство о публикации №115040508287
Свидетельство о публикации №115040508287
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