No One Is Coming To Save You

She watches the last bus leave without her,

kicks a pebble, holds up a cigarette,

remembers she hates the taste of smoke,

but tonight seems like a good night to start.

She checks her pockets.

Four dollars and a crumpled receipt.

It’s enough for coffee or enough for whiskey,

and it’s been that kind of week.

She could call someone,

but who would pick up?

She could walk home,

but even home is now just four walls

and a fridge full of expired promises.

She lights up

and waits for the next bus

like it might take her somewhere new.

(It won’t.)