Walking passed windows-
a fogged up and dusty portrait
of some white shirt, black tie event;
smoke swirling someone’s life story
from a Steinway piano, each note
another semblance to drink to.
A lady at the corner table,
all too familiar with his gaze
as memories roll down cheeks,
she mumbles under her breath,
“What a waste of good lipstick.”
Scenes play out quietly
from behind stained glass;
embroidered hankies lending calm
to stirred up cocktail of dreams
in watered down versions
of he said, she said ramblings
under subtle Friday night moons
with old demons, making new friends.
This rain, this rain drowning pasts-
feet shuffling through puddles
kicking bruised egos to the curb,
slinging blame like leftovers
to anyone who will listen.
Minds can be small, hearts smaller
as battered souls keep searching,
searching, for a soft place to land.