Musical-Ink

I’m on a sinking ship, she says. There are oceans of opportunity out there, they say. But I never learned to swim, she says. And I’m already drowning. She sits cross-legged in the overgrown grass, smoothing her black sundress over her thighs (over and over again) and flicking the ashes off the end of her cigarette (over and over again). They watch her through sideways glances. I don’t smoke, she reassures them, exhaling one last time and grinding the butt of the cigarette into the dirt. They nod and offer her another. Without hesitation, she takes it and lights it up. A long silence follows, chilling the April air. Then

a word of warning: the best poems are written by the sinner's hand.