She occasionally pounded the bar
demanding attention from the
overworked bartender.
The skin around her knuckles dribbled
down her boney fingers; collected
at her bruised wrist, dangling
like a piece of cheap jewelry.
The discolored ring-mark on her
finger, pale, bloodless flesh,
told many stories; the surgery
she saved so long for, to win
the affection of her now, ex husband,
was not enough.
He eventually left her, and now
she sits in this hole in the wall,
stabbing memories suppressed
by gin and vodka; the blues band
plays the sound of heart torturing
tunes.
She fights the tears with obnoxious
laughter, pity drinks, and stale
cigarettes left in ashtrays.
Not even the horniest of drunkards
will take her home.
They have the same look in their
eyes as
--him--
nauseatious, regretful mishap.
Sometimes change is not enough,
but then,
what is?
In a list
A contest entry
- prewrites by Melissa Gayle.
800 points, ended December 10, 2008, 26 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
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lol the title drew me into this write as I have to admit I have a certain distain for fat people lol... anyways... nice write
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In stanza two, I would perhaps remove the second and third 'hers'. Just personal perference I suppose.
Honestly I think that you could end the piece at 'him' - the rest just feels like extra and really doesn't add anything to the piece.
I can feel the disdain and sorrow here. Nicely written
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