Pub Whisper

A bag lady takes the last seat at a table.
She asks for a light, profers cigarettes
but no one there is a smoker.

She's there for half an hour or less.
Nothing is said to provoke her.
The group drink on, and play Scrabble.

Mary's the only girl there can take her ale.
When drunk, she likes to hold something hot.
The bag lady smokes, and eats some pork

then stands up. Mutters some rot
and offers up her fags again. The talk
drowns her out, but, still mumbling spiel,

she leaves one, resting on the wood
like a piece of chalk at a blackboard's base.
Here's where it gets interesting.

Mary's on her third pint. Her face
is incarnedined. Soon, she's tasting
with a stray finger, like it were food,

the lone cigarette. Then filching a light
from the next table down.
Then smoking the tramp's leaving gift.

Her head feels light. Every bone
within her's suddenly bereft
of weight. And when she grabs her pint

it shatters like a dead leaf's spine.