it's okay if we don't know what time it is,
she's got that whole look together
like it were a saturday afternoon and
she has the whole world at her feet stones.

stoned.

she like's her mother but she doesn't
know her father, she's hated her brother
but she hasn't met the rest of them, not
to mention her sister.

she doesn't like to write about herself
it's like she's looking through water.

her knuckles are read with kool-aid
and she can feel where she needs to be felt.
when did that part of the body begin to exist?

(what kind of man does it take to resist?)

she's written letters that will never be sent.

"hand delivered is the way to go,"

another drag
from the holder of a cigarette,
about 11-inches from
her covered face,

"because then you can watch them
read it."

a smile spread
and wrinkles saw what they were.