She was four foot eleven, Italian,
And the biggest liar I’ve ever known.
She drank Burnett’s Pink Lemonade Vodka
And liked to be choked during sex.
At sixteen she’d slit her wrists
When she found her mother’s body
On the kitchen floor. It was blue
And as cold as ice, she said.
She was  liar and a whore
Who had no respect for herself,
Or anyone else, and hadn’t a
Single principle or moral to her name
But I loved her,
And I miss her
A lot.
She was only twenty-two
When she died.
I keep her picture on the wall
Of my cell
And tell her every morning
That I love her.
I know if I had been out there
That I could have saved her.
I also know that if I had been out there
I wouldn’t have.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.  Robert McCracken is a gifted poet, with the ability to paint a picture and stir emotion with so few words. Although he doesn’t send in his work often, I always look forward to reading his mail. He recently mentioned trying his hand at songwriting, and I have no doubt he will succeed.

Robert can be reached at:
Smart Communications/PADOC
Robert McCracken LG8344
Sci-Greene
P.O. Box 33028
St. Petersburg, FL 33733