crimson-tipped peonies
and adorning no
silver or gold
she sips slowly on
watered-down whiskey
as thirsty Thursday night
creatures watch with wonder,
waiting.
The slow, steady tapping of
right toe against footrest
hampers hearts
aching for maiden’s
sweet nothings,
if only to somehow
catch soft sliding
notes of intonations
and explanations.
But even with hearty laughter
and cat-calling commotions,
the woman wreathed within
dense drunken air
hears nothing,
for she spends these
loud lonely nights
in her copper-corner world,
waiting
for a day which doesn’t come
and once fabricated fantasy to
call her his home.
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