SPORE

"I don’t want to be pretty no more,"
she said, to no one in particular
muttering in the darkened day,
hoping someone might listen.
She was still pretty enough
to engage attention
on some topics
so we spoke of the change of weather
in the Fall.

"I was just listening to the floor."
she said, on the ground
ale stains speckled her tight top
from where she’d tried to dance
too late in the evening
with too full a glass.
I helped her up,
helped her out the door
and into a cab
and away from what memories she could retain
of yet another escapade.

"Don’t think of me as your whore,"
she said, in the morning after
the night before
and I agreed
as, in the harsh new light,
I wasn’t sure
I wanted to think of her at all.

But I did.
She remained with me
in some form
after she left for a train
with ale stained lips
with which she said,
"our time together
will end as lore."