On the street of broken dreams, she saw
the dyed-blond hipster she’d always wanted
to be. She followed her into the blues club and
watched as her unfortunate role model sat down
at a table. Three older men and a dyed blond
Back on the sidewalk while she waited on the
band, she shared a cigarette with a rail-thin woman.
Her age an unanswerable question.
Apropos of nothing, the woman said, Life’s a bitch.
Static and fluid. Both. Waves aren’t calm, she said.
They ain’t your friend.
How to answer that?
Was it the curse of youth? The times? The ache for
a life unlike the one she sprung from. She, a girl
possessed with small town beauty. An innocence
she actively denied.
She became a regular in the bars on the street where
dreams are only that. When she married the bar
owner everyone called Popeye, who was older
than her father, another kind of life