She sat on the park bench,
her dress well worn with
holes under the arms, and rips
in the pockets where dollar bills
peeked out, their tips hanging, an open
invitation to wind's teasing efforts.
I remember her shoes,
too wide for her ankles, looking like
the encroaching mouth of hunger
leeching onto her feet,
slowly sucking the muscle and tendons
down through the hills of her
thighs, calves, and divesting her
of all that was once part of her in
this life, the arches and curves
of her body, the time to think
past the minutes of hunger
driving her into corners of trash,
and the quiet voice which
sometimes tells us who we are.
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