The Bar's Tool

Scorned coquette perched so solemnly upon your death stool, claw deep the fresh flesh of victors bearing armfuls of decaying flowers stolen from your mother’s grave. A diverse parade - clairvoyants and gigolos tyrants and schizophrenics junkies and Jesus freaks; you seem to attract an unending assembly line of tarnished beggars you’ve at one time longingly called “lover.” Tainted transients - now live as smudged chalk marks upon the mammoth gray blackboard - hanging askew upon your barren bedroom wall. Precocious sorceress perched atop your fragile Hepplewhite feigning the airs of a barfly madam - look a bit closer at the species of insects you entrap. You’re not a spider woman by trade – Nor was your mother a queen bee. Understand… burning security blankets during one’s wonder years may now be considered a latter day memorial service. Bedouin to the barstool wrap once more the quilt you crocheted, from momma’s discarded doilies, around your sleek white shoulders. Remove the scratched liquor labels that live underneath your pillow cases and look. He’s out there, precious - somewhere behind the mist in Glasgow or hidden 'neath the sands of the Gobi – Somewhere…hiding, lurking ready to erase away faded white chalk marks. His minted breath will burn your cold, gray slate.