You have a crown,
made of twisted-up straw wrappers.
It sits awkwardly and is
sort of getting pulled apart
while you wrestle at the table
with your boyfriend.

You are smiling and
everyone is watching you smile
and hoping you keep smiling
and John, he’s twisting you
a new crown because
we all see that the old one
isn’t going to last.

I heard you got your papers
and you’re stuck here for life.
Or years – close enough to life
for you.

We tried to tell you that this city,
it’s not so bad really.
We tried to keep your eyes
away from travel magazines and
glorified computer desktop
backgrounds. You’ll just right-click again.

And you cry so much these days,
darling, and we don’t know what to do.
You breathe the air and swear it’s
not as good as it was a month ago.
You spit up your cakes and candies
and have nothing to say for it.

But John is twisting a crown for you.
If he has to keep you smiling one diner
at a time, He has no qualms
getting famous in those restaurants.

But I, my dear,
can not stand your self-inflicted
wounds any longer.
I swear, this time.

I wash my hands of you.
I will scrub very hard, at least,
and I will keep a towel with me
for the next time I get dirty,
because damn it,
You never really do come off.