Her hollowed skin
is potholed
on old bulging
veins,
and when she
wrings her hands,
she breathes
in deep.
Her slow exhale
drips out
every secret
dream
she had.
Till all she is –
is a concave
bowl.
And if only
plants
could thrive
without sun,
she might have
need
for one.
PAD Day 3 Message Poem
Collected pain drips
from an assortment
of wobbly elbows
until this night’s convergence
of long island tea
and bloody marys
leaves their imprints
far too messed up
for any psychic to read
before the barkeep
wipes the stench away
gathering bits of their souls
into a yellowed sheet
now filled with their piss
and vinegar.