I’m filled with hope,
introspection,
disappointment – a cesspool
of her soul.
I’m a Saturday-night refuge,
a safe haven for the weak one,
for the sickly model
who didn’t make Vogue.
I’m the waste basket
for Rabelaisian nights,
licentious lingerie, the smudges in her record,
a broken record, record, record, record …
I’ll forever repeat in her mind.
Trodden to a pulp,
she retreats one night
into my arms – my
scalding, wet arms.
Clear liquid cascades from her
bloodshot eyes, gore flooding
from her puling wounds,
from her fearful heart,
into my recesses.
I wish I could help her,
that shame-faced Barbie doll,
lipstick slathered across her
bony cheeks, imperfections oozing
from her skeletal silhouette.
But I’m hollow, a chemical lake
of porcelain and stainless steel –
I’m a muffled drain
that runs from the Federal water supply.