Alone on Whiskey Row
Sometimes I see her in the uptown crowd,
Staring at drunk men who are talking loud,
Leaning against brick walls by saloon doors
As rust-colored whiskey from their bottle pours.
Sometimes I see that lady, with ashen face.
She checks out the shape of every chin line
As though searching for an old love, so fine.
She runs her finger through her tasseled hair,
That years ago was styled with such care.
Time has marked her face with every line,
Although, a spark within those eyes shine,
Past spirit and passion ran full and wild,
But also, a pure innocence, as that of a child.
Sensuality, surely dried up as a lost river bed,
As laden heart holds hurt for what was said,
Chilling her being from winters spent alone.
There is no knocking at the door
No ringing of her phone.
So slowly she climbs the steps to her place,
Studio apartment, windows covered in lace.
In bed, that bottle is comfort,
Just for tonight.
Written by cindy Prochnow 2003
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