That statue of a girl,
with the broken fingers
and waste at her feet,
the one that’s been standing
for as long as I can remember,
with artwork on her face
and droppings on her shoulders,
has wept for many years
and no one ever cared.

Passersby look at
her presence in disgust;
after all, isn’t she
just a marble eyesore?
No one wants to see
the sadness in her face;
they don’t want to read
the legend on the plaque.

It is not their business
to care about a statue,
carved to be sad for the rest of her days.
It is not their business
to know why she’s so sad,
or to look at her at all.