She sat at the corner of the bar
most nights, smiling at any
man that might glance her way.
Age and bad habits had
defeated the plastic surgeons,
mocking the beauty she was.
Now it was garish make-up,
overdone hair, smoking lines
at the corner of her mouth and
the slack skin that comes from
thinking thin and pretty are the same.
She breathed lonely into the room,
confident that by last call there would
be a man, any man, willing to give her a
glimpse of desire sufficient to fill the night.
The bartender kept her glass full,
saddened by what used to amuse him.
Now, he thought of her as fallen —
a molting angel trying to glue on lost
feathers, knowing it was not enough.
Written for the Poets United Prompt dealing with feathers. Just a little dark for the subject matter…but that is what I do.