At Greyfriars Bobby's Pub
In her twenties, she's already
had a brain hemorrhage, cocaine
habit, lousy London lovers.
Whenever she doesn't agree,
she makes a cross, doesn't explain
what she means, asks are we both queers?
Disappointed when we say yes,
she brightens when she brings up AIDS,
says Edinburgh's full of disease,
laughs, quickly makes another cross.
Her left eye lacks focus - it wades
into her bitters where it sees
a roomful of smoky tourists,
night at the window, bloody wrists.
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