To the woman sleeping in the waiting room
By

    Tina’s got bone yards.

    Old scars,
    from three kids,
      mainly, Tommy
    who ran away
    and
    ended up in AA out by
    Green Bay, Wisconsin with
    her mother and her mother’s
    god
    damned
    cats.

    Tina’s got a broke car.

    Parked by the 7/11 where she told
    the boss to go

    “Fuck yourself up the ass with the slushy machine!”

    and laughed
    and laughed
    and laughed
    about it
    till she cried for two days
    in bed, re-runs of Friends playing
    LOUD on her living room T.V.

    But when she dreamed
    those nights it was the taste of
    warm light at sixteen
    in

    Hot.
    Pants.

    (pink and silver shimmering scale print)

    in
      back seats
    with pot cloud kisses
    f  l  o  a  t  i  n  g
    through
      the
       roof.

    Tina walks home now.

    The drug store’s out
    of her pain pills so she
    s
     p
      i
       l
        l
         s
    a can of diet coke
    in the empty lot for
    that sort of earthly revenge
    and
    crushes aluminum
    in her manicured fist,
    sits down on the curb
    grinds her boot soles into gravel
    and thinks
    “If I could
      Sing
    I’d sing the blues.”

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