Darting glances across the restaurant,
she wanted to be consumed tonight
by any old man,
she chose the wrong one,
a sorry-ass son
dressed in black, swigging Chardonnay.
She had little else
besides her luck and instinct;
wiping down the bar
the thousandth time,
she wore down a smile
that could cut through smoke—
Seeing thirty in the rearview mirror,
loneliness had often choked her.
She was grateful for his
constant attention at 3 am,
but he had kissed her off
far too early in the morning;
he left without leaving
a good-bye Post-it note.
Bleary, weary for another good-night’s sleep,
now an impossibility in these
harried, hazy nights, while
earning her keep In New York City,
serving more patrons their chosen lubricants,
saving her heart for the highest bidder.