One lip
One tip
over…
And she’s a fallen:
Wo…
Smoking in the dark;
her shadow lick their pores
Their skin
sees her reflection
But, she,
Fades…
soaked in doubt
She is a badly mixed shooter on a Sunday night!
Framed like the art work she is.
in motion she is
A stumbling, bumbling fool
She catches glances like olive branches
Then drops them careless in her pocket.
Half scatter to the pavement
The rest are lost on the subway home!
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