She Was Tall, 5-11 With Her Boots On

Torn like taffy at the county fair,
She was busy throwing my shit off the balcony,
Mixing her tears with my dirty laundry
And pillows stained with someone else’s makeup.

Anchorwoman, what have you done?
My cries fell on deaf and battered ears,
Small canals filled to overflowing
With broken promises
Tossed like garbage from my drunken mouth.
She couldn’t believe a word I said
Until she knew I was telling her the truth.

I didn’t make a scene,
Just stood and cooed
Like some maligned pigeon.
More empties to add to the collection
Of broken things
Lying on the sidewalk
Underneath my balcony.

When she was done, crumpled and defeated,
Exhausted, spent, and utterly alone,
I reached out for her.
She recoiled in horror,
Straightened and stood,
Proud of herself for fighting back.
Some small battle had been won
Some piece of ground
Had been definitively taken.

She walked out with her head held high,
Pausing only once to kick my dirty laundry.

I saw her later that night on TV,
Calm and collected as she
Recounted the latest breaking stories.
You’d never guess where she'd been.