On Eastern Avenue

She wasn’t there when I saw her.
Absent and empty and gone,
Her face caked in vomit and saliva,
Nothing behind her eyes at all,
Slumped in her seat as the needle,
Had drained the life from her body
Slower than it pushed it in.
I half expected blood to pool on the floor,
Of the car in the footwell and the inside pocket,
Where she kept her CDs.
Bowie and Bowie and Bowie,
His lightning face paint, and staccatos,
Still playing from the speakers,
As I tried to shake her awake,
As the ambulance came,
And the flood of its lights tricked me,
Into thinking she came alive again.

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