when the music stops

I find my old black book,

my go to rolodex
of old flames

that flamed out for one reason
or another.

everyone is gone.
busy.
in love, married, dead,
or have moved
to florida
because they've given up
or grown old.

settled nicely into some senior
home facing the water,
or highway,
or billboard along the road.
rocking and knitting
with a cat in their lap,
or looking up
a soup
recipe on their phone.

one by one, the ones that
can be reached
all say they same thing.
i'm done. i'm shot. I hate men.

the book is tattered.
worn,
frayed at the edges.
stained with coffee and apple
martinis.

calamari grease.

I throw it into the fire
along
with things they left behind.

stockings and heels, negligees,
lotions and creams,
whips and toy guns,

books on tantric, cosmo
magazines. polaroids.

it wasn't the mensa club by any
stretch of the imagination,
more of a circus
troupe on tour, a wild bunch
of women.

but it was fun until the music
stopped, which was a long
time ago.