"I don't write poetry any more,"
she said
and threw down the shot of wild turkey.

she was beautiful once.
now, her eyes trapped  
and frightened.

her lips moved
but it was the rain that spoke to me.

she glorified in self destruction
like an actress in a greek tragedy  
or a boxer past his prime

dark violets, gardenas, and red roses
she sits behind a tombstone
picking flowers
waiting.