drifting around wooden floors and barstools,

where men size up girls who clutch tightly onto polished purses

and move their tired eyes around the room.

someone shouts out for another round.

 

a dart strikes the slender space between two fates

but chooses neither and falls,

causing a small fit of rage and mild

mockery.

 

she sits alone in the corner.

encouraged to give in to the loud pounding music and laughs

partnered with a loss of control,

intoxicated.

 

the walking dead saunter out

hand-in-hand with their friends of foolishness and blurred reality.

she stumbles outside with them, where glazed faces inhale acrid smoke.

he promises to keep her safe.

 

awake the next day with a few bruises and a pained head.

something was lost, maybe it was her purse?

yes. it was her purse.

 

“we’re sorry ma’am there is nothing we can do,

maybe you ​accidentally left it somewhere.”