She tipped her hat against the wind and squinted through the rain
Her life was a novella of pulp in a moonlit motion picture of class
Her high heels kicked through puddles that reflected street lights
The book in her bag was damp from intruding weather
Her coat held closed, her umbrella shielded her lipstick from the thunder
The lightning flashed, silhouetting her shadow against the passing cars
A busker stood against a wall emptying water from his guitar
A bottle of wine stood safe on her kitchen counter
The coke in her bag gave a clue to her hurried trot through the streets
The dwindling spring in her mind was racing to indulge some more
Men in pubs behind her spread rumours about her allure
Her legs were food for their hormonal hunger
At last she arrived home and discarded her twisted umbrella in the garden
She fished for her keys with dripping hands and unlocked the front door
Inside she fell against the wall and stumbled into her lounge
She paid the babysitter and put on a record
She carved out her last lines on an old record sleeve. It was a Bob Dylan vinyl
She laid back on her couch and fumbled with her backie to roll a cigarette
With no money left she used a straw to snort the last particles of white
She kicked off her shoes and pulled off her dress
Sprawled naked in the bath she let the hot shower rinse off her soiled elegance
A wine glass toiled between her fingers. She hummed a half remembered tune
She had the sense of mind to towel before she crawled to bed
She slept for an hour before her daughter cried her awake.
Andrew Chapman / Author and Screenwriter 
Reblogged this on the unedited thoughts of a mad womans mind.