marjorie wore the tired drawl,
and drunken sexiness,
and harsh quick wit,
that she’d found could draw her to the center of laughing men
and, usually,
keep her safe from them
until the mornings stretched long
and the feeling of missing something
took up too much space in the room
and all the customary jeans and gestures
didn’t fit.
And with the sad shock of having hid
and missed out on all the real stuff-
the pain and beauty both-
her face would sometimes crumple up around her eyes.

The small thing that was her self
hadn’t been allowed to grow.
Now that she knew it,
she lived between two eyes, two minds;
a hardened actress and a freaked-out child.
She leaned over the ashes and coffee clutter
and her hand shook, but she smiled and actually seemed shy and said:
“these days I make an ass of myself,
but at least it’s an ass I can live with
when I wake up alone in bed,
and my laugh sounds different now
and though there’s fewer of the old gang I’d spend time with,
i think i’d make a better friend?”