french manicured tips around
a plastic cup from his house
containing 20 percent juice
80 percent divine
rolled eyes,
back not around
with my lids closing down.
alcohol not fine wine.
life at the bottom of the cup is always
the same,
either u see nothing
or a distorted image
of reality rattles your brain.
Oh, glass with one cut!
a chip on its brim
rather than the chip
on your shoulder.
the coolness rushes
in through my fingers
clamped around that
yellow cup.
i can smell the
magenta of it all
calling my name.
copyright 2004 kristina lopez
