I once knew a girl from Baltimore
who wrote three times a day
who stayed up late
and sat and painted
and molded birds of clay.
They said her mind was beautiful-
as elusive as an eclipse
and when she spoke
the words shot forth
like shooting stars from her lips.
We'd sit and talk for hours
and I'd try and catch the stars
but my hands grasped only stardust
which I saved and
kept in jars.
But now the jars are broken
the stardust is no more
Our photographs are sunburnt
the birds lay smashed upon the floor.
I hear she married a banker
lives a subway life in N'York
they tell me she works in retail
and sleeps alone when not at work
But before she sleeps
she turns and tosses
and wonders why time flies
and then steps off her single bed
&
writes before she cries.