At the end of the day
there's always another
for her to
come home to.
Normally it's
just your luck;
he's some upper class
Ivy leaguer
with a stable income,
a degree or two,
and a large need
to get punched
in the mouth,
but there's always
another,

no matter what.

You only have her
for quick
fleeting moments:
she picked you up
from work,
maybe met you
at the bus stop,
winked as you
climb in for
the quick ride
to her place,
hardly making it
to the bedroom
before tearing each
other apart,

no matter what.

Quick flings of passion;
hand wrapped
on your neck,
hair all around.
She smiles
that *****
devil and god smile,
and you swear
that there's no one
else in this world.
But it's only
quick moments,
then it's that long lonely
cab ride home
as some Mercedes
pulls in
the driveway
behind you,

no matter what.