broken souls slump against battered brick walls
the avenue drowning in cheap perfume
drawing in the tired
slick pavement melts the neon lights, bathing the cold street in red reflections

she puffs on a cigarette
smoke clearing her head as it fills her lungs
her lips taste are made of whiskey and a million well kept secrets
her smile never reveals too much
but she has learned not to be afraid
she has learned to keep her head up
she sighs and straightens her back
it’s showtime