By Ian Fletcher

She wakes with a slight hangover
but nothing that the first fat joint
of the day won’t promptly dispel
her self-abused body long inured to
daily doses of dope and booze.
She looks at the peeling wallpaper
and at the nicotine-stained ceiling
contemplating another empty day
in this that has become her world.

How different it had once been
when they would congregate
around her like moths to a candle.
What powers she had and what
absolute rule over her domain
one moment bestowing her favors
another to be as cruel as Cleopatra.

Stumbling from an unshared bed
she knows it matters now not a jot
her peroxide hair is a tousled mess
nor whether she dresses for the day.
How could this become my world
she reflects it not occurring to her
that the problem has always been
the regarding of the world as hers.