Over near LAX, LA melancholia, in a funk-named wine bar with her new name, it’s short for ‘Girl’
She’s soon to be shoulders armed with alcohol, a bending slouch to voices
Her bore-holed ears are splitting, hard of hearing for the songs from corner speakers
Duty singer’s feet pull dust balls from the floor, and ‘G’ tunes both legs, collision from malnutrition, here, only dry spills allowed on baize
Out, but ‘G’ can’t get into the gutter, not here, where sun and sand bargain for Death
About town thirst, calendar girl life
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Paul Welsh - Poetry 