"I am dying." ,
or so she says, eyes wide,
and leaning into me,
as if I had heard her
in the blurry rise of a nap.
Her hood of shroud,
"Abercrombie" a " finched " hue,
is fashionably askew,
across her hair. I stare
at the latest style underneath
it all , sculpted in the mall,
and smile.
"One should always be well put together
before slitting your wrists"
Fists are clenched with gold,
and glitter, to accentuate
the bitter aftertaste in her mouth,
as she spews photos
of her children, lined up neatly
in her platinum plate wallet.
" Some accessories work,
and some simply don't."
Her " Why I am here's "
are left overs in the veneers
of fortune Mommy, and Daddy
braced the bank for.
( my mind couldn't help itself )
The little snot pointed
to the parking lot,
with her million dollar grin.
" If you had showed me your kin
with the same enthusiasm. " ,
I sit silently listening,
in my faded Levi's ,
an unemployment card tucked
discretely in the back pocket.
My eye sockets, engrained
with the sand paper
of her recession, her bane
of life, HER
(insert a choking cough )
depression.
Having nothing else,
to boast about,
( hey she felt better )
she asks ...
" So why are you here ? "
" To apply for the job
cleaning toilets. "
"I would never do that!" , she replied.
I walked away, wondering
if she had ever tried,
at anything ...