Pocketbook

Grey, cold mornings

in a funk

let me out

through the 'IN' door

taking thoughts

with me on paper,

not in my handwriting, cursive.

And I've been in this situation before,

but not in this story

or in this city,

but it's the same concrete

and the same blood

running from the sores

on my knees.

Of course I can't recall her name again

even if I wanted too,

she tasted like whiskey and cigarettes,

she tasted like the streets

and  I may have not been

her first kiss that night.

She tasted beautiful.

And the morning sun

started heating up my tattoos

in a too familiar way,

so I put an afterthought in my pocketbook

and tucked it away in my bag;

time to find some shade.

Reviews

[Chris]

Felt real and not contrived. I liked the aftertaste.

[Abigale LeCavalier]

Thank you so much!