Chrissy Jones

Alone at the bus station, you ask for a smoke, is that you that patient, you the prodigal daughter, now in a white coat, once so full of laughter, we thought you’d made it, you always went for broke, said the love we trade, is all that matters, even if your kingdom’s spoken, your clothes tattered, you gave us all away, in the manner of your jokes, even drunk on the pavement, your dark glasses won’t shatter, tell them that your hosts, your soul is the river, a red letter fragrance, you’re as beautiful to know, still just as elegant, you’ll ride this blow.