Birdcage
by Mira Martin-Parker

It's strange

finding yourself

in evening wear during the daytime

smelling of stale beer and cigarettes.

You look in the mirror

not recognizing the blurred image.

You try to focus

discern the color of your hair,

your eyes.

Then you remember

drinking in the daytime once

at a bar on the Santa Monica Pier.

It was hot,

so you ordered a blue Hawaiian.

You were having such a good time

you left your handbag

hanging from a chair.

And that was the last time

anyone

called you by name.