She gazed through the haze
of smoke that
perpetually
escaped from her lips,
And sipped her glass of wine,
one of the last companions
she could afford.
And I sat here in my car,
unable to tear my eyes
from her lined face,
her true story blown away
as nicotine in the wind,
while I created my own story
of her life distilled by crushed
grapes grown in an impoverished
country,picked by hands who
had no idea what kind of grief
they were suppressing...