Empty

A copy of the Bell Jar, unread, sits on her bedside table
and copies of old newspapers pile up in the hall
time ticks and water drips
she sits unmoving by the stairs
staring at the ceiling and the sky outside her box.
dust moves slowly
dancing out the window
and she stares at the clouds.
Drinking from an empty glass
and writing with an inkless pen
the world spins up to kiss the sky goodnight.
the moon looks down, solemn and lonesome
at a city barely living barely sleeping
and the woman in her box
sings a song until the morning
of emptiness and heartbreak after dusk.
There's a song for when you're going out
and another for when you come back in
the mocking bird preens before the mirror
standing on the rocking chair
sipping light tequila
flipping through For Esme With Love and Squalor.
An old man on the corner
looks up towards the window
and the songstress combs her hair with saddened eyes
the world will always wonder and she will ever laugh
and the song will go on singing for itself.