She perches on the chair,
clink of ice croons in her ear;
a slippery gloss of memory froths her lips.

Here on dark waters
float glimmers of chance
while hope,
that slow gasping fish of dreams
slides near.

She raises her glass,
a spirited salute--
when the lights come on he swims clear.

Washed up, she spits,
and tugs her drink,
swallows scorn in one long gulp:

that bitter brine,
end of the line,
a barb,
stuck in her throat.