Polly’s Shoes

Polly’s on the street again.
And no one’ll know
If I let her in
From the rain,
While I make the dough,
Or if I share
My little lunch.

Polly wants to know
My sign
And expounds
Libran virtues,
Eyes flashing behind
Taped glasses
Over skin that’s seen
Too much sun.

Polly needs to sleep.
Cops keep crashing
Into her viaduct,
And one can only
Haunt the midnight street
So long.
Leave the screen door
Open,
Just in case.

Polly’s reading
From her journal,
Snippets of nightmares
And verse,
While I chop the peppers
And get the place ready
For a dinner rush.
Her voice is gritty
With a cough
She can’t shake,
And I share a flask,
Against better judgement.

Polly got rolled
For howling at the moon,
And just as sudden
As she showed,
She’s gone.
Back on the ward,
Where you can’t even
Bring her
A notebook
Or a pen,
She’s so fogged.

And Polly is the winter rain.
And Polly is the wind that moans.
And Polly has the words to unlock a heart.

But Polly is the warning.

It would be
All too easy,
To lose your way
In her streetworn boots.

(attending a birthday party at the Rat’s “pizza” place)

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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