It was ten 'til 9 and she was still tying off 
The last few threads of her childhood. 
They lived every Wednesday in a decade 
That was just learning how to crawl, 
But spoke of their dreams 
Like rocking chair grandpas. 
They always looked back. 

She'd spent all weekend watching paint dry 
And imagining the second hand moving faster than usual. 
The only one that missed her was 
The case of beer on the bathroom floor at home, 
And the dark, violent addict 
Stoned 150 miles south... 
If he'd notice she's gone. 

She listened to the constant flushing 
Of toilets as the maintenance men cleaned. 
Scrub and rinse, boys, scrub and rinse; 
There's no one here to hear you anyway, 
Save the hopeless romantic 
Who can't quite decide if she exists 
Or if she'll ever die. 

The temperature approached 900 as 
She tipped further back in her chair, 
Ignoring her throbbing ankle, 
A bruise easily earned from last night's joyrides. 
She was me once, ambitious and law-abiding, 
Yet treacherous with love. 
And there was never any pain. 

March 24th, 2002