A hurt woman of thirty, thirty-five,

doing a seven-day stint at Pine Grove detox,

paces, hazy, puzzled to be alive,

feet wedged in flip-flops, sheathed in dirty socks.


Her voice is Castle Island, her first name

a common one for children of the '80s.

She clings to the few comforts of this Hades:

cigarettes, decaf coffee, shared shame.


Red-haired, her face all freckle and tear-streak,

familiar as Broadway or Andrew Station,

she manages both defiance and defeat.


I ponder the sad mystery of her feet

scuffing the Lysol'd halls of desolation

where she’ll get sober if only for a week.

Poetry by Thomas DeFreitas The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2018-08-25 at 20:43

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josephus The PoetBay support member heart!
Nicely done Thomas!

Too sad and much too common a situation. A poem that tells a story in rhymes of every other line. I wish I knew what it's called in poetry, but it makes for a pleasing read, although a sad subject. Very well done in style and subject.