At the Bar

There she is, perfectly poised with a lit cigarette in her mouth
And picture perfect hair, sitting all alone on a barstool at 1 a.m.
With teas glistening on her rosy cheeks. Her bloodshot and green
Eyes like she has been crying all night. Her charm from the south
Is gone. I want to ask, “What’s wrong?” Maybe her world is a sham
And is completely splitting apart at the seams. Maybe she has seen
The war, but she no longer wants to be a soldier carrying the load
Alone, but I do not say anything as the cigarette smoke permeates
The air. All I can do is sit beside her and smile because maybe that
Is all she needs to get through her day. Someone who has showed
Her some kindness and someone who has lifted her heavy weights
Just for a minute or two. Someone who makes her realize her flat
Line is just another blip on the horizon. She does not have to say
Thank you because I can feel it and when she looks my way.