Sun stubbed out like a dead cigarette
She wakes in the ashtray of another
Partied out share-house and checks
She's still wearing her panties
Not that its any guarantee
But at least her modesty is in tact
Memories ghost through the dusk
Of her getting up/Routine takes over
Showering and pulling less stale clothes on
While a montage of vodka shots,
Tongue kissing and dirty dancing
Plays behind her eyes
If she died now, she thinks, this would be her legacy;
Cheap thrills and bad choices in boys.
She's out the door and into the night,
Heading to work, hair still wet,
A well-trained homing pigeon.
Disturbing what the necessity of having to pay rent
Can do to a person.
The uniform is ill-fitting and pinches under her arms
As she serves burgers and fries to drunk girls
And guys in chain-store clothes, designer smells, expensive smiles
Who feel a night out in the city rationalises their lifestyle choice
Of living in the suburbs
She barely suppresses the urge to vomit
The isolation of the staff toilet beneath a cruel fluorescent tube
Offers no solace, only the venal truth of loneliness and decay.
© shaun patrick green 2012
