In like a lion–
the skies grey
and unforgiving.
Marching on.
The woman ahead of me,
it’s 10 AM,
she’s got two
twenty-ounce
cans of Coors on
the counter.
And nothing else.
I’m holding tight
to my soda pop;
my tears tell me–
sugar’s too low.
I need the lift.
I’m addicted to my sadness.
I keep falling
off that wagon.
But the tulips
are rising–
their pale purple
not so different
from that unforgiven sky.
3/1/18
Aphra's Pen 