Glory Days Poem by Charley Powell

She comes in at a quarter to one that night,
A stumbling shadow in the slumbering hallway.
Through to the kitchen, lights are flicked on
Blazing ferociously as she squints mascara-streaked eyes.
Flops into a chair, these heels are killing her, kicks
Them under the table - sore feet relieved.
Now the annoying earrings come out,
Off come the glitzy bangles, dumped
In a ragged heap on the table.
The night was a good one
She thinks.
What was the bloke's name? Chris? Drew?
Does it matter? He'd never call.
The house buzzes with deafening emptiness.
She hauls herself to bed.

Next morning at the mirror
A jaded stranger greets her.
Last night's makeup crusted
And smeared into a clown-faced mockery.
Her hair hangs lank and filled with smoke-stench
And rings black as tea-stains gouge hollows round her eyes.
These are the glory days
The happy memories she'll look back on one day...
Her pale cheeks are scarred by tear trails.