I am a soggy bitch steeped in wine

i am sour

i like men with rocks in their voices

staring out windows

with cigarettes -- decorations in their fingers

or doing nothing at all while smoke drifts through their hair

they fry eggs in the morning and put on yesterday's clothes

waiting for the slap of a paper against the door

waiting for life

watching coffee steam and boil

and i think to myself, i'll stare out the window

of a tired bar somewhere in a faraway town

this isn't so different

than anywhere