Liquid swirls slowly at the bottom of her glass,
diving in, she hits the bottom with a crash
another waiting drink, another lost hour
Just like her life waiting to be devoured
A trepid woman used, a trusting woman scorned
She's either second hand, ash in her wake, or alone and torn
At the bar, a seedy man eyes her like a beast
Objectified by men, she's not surprised in the least
She reapplies her lipstick and gets up to dance
In the corner of her eye, the door cries last chance
Her heels click across the room; she takes him by the hand
With no respect for herself, she cannot understand
These men will never love her the way she desires
She's just another notch on their belt to acquire
As the bartender yells "last call", she kisses his cheek
They start to leave together with no words to speak
But before they get to the door, she drains one last ale
Sadly, just like her life feels, it's sour and stale.
April 7, 2012
for And With A Sip Contest (Paula Swanson)
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