As She Wakes

A pale arm emerges from the sheets,
the fist stretches its fingers and reaches for air.
She pulls the sheet off her body
revealing skin like freckled porcelain.
The cold morning has left
her nipples to point the way forward.
Her eyes scan the room
and find a pair of boxer shorts
and a t-shirt too large
for her frame. She pulls
the shorts on, and soon
the t-shirt drapes over her chest.
Her bare feet step quietly into the kitchen.
The dishes have piled up. Empty glasses:
pints, tumblers and shots
are scattered all over the counter
and the cluttered dining room table.
The broken body of an empty fifth sits dead
at the base of one of the table legs.
Sunlight reflects off shards of irregular prisms.
She approaches and backs away
and towards the fridge. Inside
the fridge she looks for her iced coffee
from yesterday morning. Looking over
to the trash, it sits on top.
Another victim of last night.
A smoke, she needs a smoke.
She finds her purse and opens
the pack of cigarettes.
Only two left.
She looks for her lighter,
it too has gone the way of the iced coffee.
There are matches in the bathroom she remembers.
She strikes the match against the box
and brings it towards her face. She takes a drag
and lets it fill her lungs.
She steps out her apartment door
and finds most of the parking spaces
downstairs to be free.
It must be morning she thinks.
She can hear the faint sound of street traffic.
The cigarette smoke floats and dissipates.
She leans against the rail, wondering.