Saturday, February 01, 2014

The bar

She sits uncomfortably
on the bar stool.
And in her skin.
The night moves on
around her, walking
to the rhythm of erratic
unchanging music.
She plays with a coaster,
damp with drink.
And coughs delicately
in the cigarette smoke.
A few smiles and
a free drink or two.
They make her
feel beautiful.
And she now
seems to exist only
in the images reflected
in the roving eyes
of passing strangers.
In her I see that sedate
loneliness that keeps
 the nights long
and the mirrors cracked
and corroded.
That lulls and dulls
and dissolves little pills
of self pity in her glass
at the bottom of which
she then finds only
some bitter cynicism.
I will her to walk out
and find her way home.
To start once more.
To once again begin.
But even as I leave
I see her still sitting
on the bar stool.
And in her skin.


virinder sabharwal said...

the credibility of this poem is only better understood by the lady herself. I can just see a potrayal and what i see is incredible. thumbs up poetess.

Anonymous said...