The Mess Around

Bright smile. Her left hand tipping the ashes of a gloving cigarette,

fingers rapidly kneeling to the beat of the whistlers.

Her right hand holding a tall crystal glass,

it’s bottom coloured sunshine from the reflection of her painted nails.

Gently she wrapped her lips around the glass and dared a sip.

It tasted of music flavoured by youth and expectations.

Instinctly she emptied it, downed life in one go.

She staggered and moved boldly towards the lights.

Today only a single drop fuels her delight,

beauty fading like make up after a ball.
Her muscles tired of movement, mind sicken by changes.

Yet sometimes she smiles, feeds her desires,
moves boldly towards the lights. She just can’t do the mess around.