When A Beautiful Woman Takes To Drink

She becomes a drunk,
a lost semblance to her
former being. Life
becomes the next drink,vodkaglass
the next drink, the
next man, the next
squandering of rent.

She’s like a tattered painting,
fading, but with promise of
restoration, but without a
guiding hand, crumbles to
oily dust. And once the
cracking becomes skin-replacement,
she’s lost. Somberly, she
takes her life, a breathless poem
without a song.


Jazz to fill the distance

Long silences in between.
the notes resound from
the long lost jazz quartet,
morphing into crescendos from
a band of twenty men.
As I brush the dust from
the vinyl, talking
rhetorically to Goodman’s spirit,
hoping he’ll settle my woes
for the time being, I can’t
help but think of you.