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The sertraline queen of New Orleans
Getting high on her brandy and coke.
Perched on a bar stool, surveying the scene,
While she lights up another smoke.

Tom Waits is playing on the radio 
“In the neighbourhood”, plodding and slow.
Nicotine clouds drift across the stained bar
TV blinks in the corner, like a flickering star.

Sitting proud and upright in her red and white dress
Black shiny stilettoes, dressed to impress.
Flicks open her compact, with lips pursed and tight
She sharpens her edges, this new socialite.

Here she can be whomever she wants
Pick her own style, choose her own fonts.
Not just a mother, a daughter, a wife 
Now a bohemian, pulsing with life 

Redrawing her outline, sensing her form.
He tried to erase her, now she’s reborn.
Once bound with threats, with ropes made from fear.
But now she was free. He wasn’t here. 

No more would she be stifled, 
Excluded and erased,
Nor stand upon South Portland Bridge
Convinced she couldn’t be saved.

The barman gives her a sideways look
As he towel dries another glass.
He says “Do you want another one love ?
Or will that be your last ? ”

She sighs to see her black cab pull up
On the rain drenched, Glasgow Street.
“I’ll just have one for the road” she says
“But you better make it neat.” 

Raincoat around her shoulders,
Collar pulled up to her chin,
She opens the glistening cab door
And nestles deep within.

“Where are ye headed ? Tis nae night for a walk”
Asked the cabbie, in time honoured patter, 
“Just take me to anywhere else” she said,
 “Keep on driving, the place doesn’t matter"

The Sertraline Queen of New Orleans
Watches tenements slip out of sight
Cheek pressed to the window of the steamed up cab
That delivers her back to the night ……………

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