She was bent on torment,
spinning around in her heels,
leaving marks on the dance floor
as he spit his faith into a beer can.
She wept for the morning,
in her own way.
Her comfort cradled
in the weathered arms
of a transient artist.
A 6 string that he’ll never play here again;
But she always finds those same
strings that tie her to this town.
The notes that keep her going,
writhing under every moon
with men like him.
Hoping the sounds they make together,
will sate the burn of dawn’s solace.
Praying for a song that will make it til’ morning.
-James Kelley 2013, All rights reserved.