And did our mothers invent loneliness,
our did it become our mothers.
That all too familiar
lemon scented laundry basket
and cheap lipstick left unopened,
a body that bends like
small
origami,
lips that hum in soft, c minor chords,
the last note lingers,
until he spills his liquor into another women's lips
near an unlit flame,
above the same sky.
