she would sit by the window
and watch the sun roll
along the fields of
golden canola and
newly cut hay.
The fragrance of
lush pastures
and those hopeful
shades of green,
forever changing,
never satisfied
and unaware of their
superiority
to the Big Smoke.
She would never,
even under different circumstances,
return to the streetlights.
She wondered
how long she had,
weeks or only days,
to admire this
almost terrifying beauty.
And would she
see another rain shower,
and breathe, afterward
the freshly laundered air
and the cold steam
rising off the foothills.
They had hinted at about six.
Weeks to put to good use.
And the young intern had,
to her great embarrassment,
handed her
a megapack
of highest potency
and expensive looking
food supplements.
As if it mattered
in what condition she would
meet HIM,
her maker,
who didn’t think enough of her
to let her stick around
past the age of forty-two.
She reached
for another Camel,
no filter,
lit it with her
gold-plated Zippo,
and poured a big slug
of Jack.
No ice.
‘Jack would like it here’,
she said.
Mud in your eyes.
No room for tears.