A woman walks
down the street as children
throw mud at her.

Her mouth a trench.

Her head shaved.

She’s hardly dressed.

No one dares look
in her eyes though.

There are dreams
there that children
are jealous of.

The houses are
round like thimbles.

Steam pours out
like coffee cups.  

The shutters stick
out like birds beaks.  

The wind shuffles
the houses about.

Some of the
houses tip over.

You’ll be guessing
in vain though.

There are no
souls underneath.

Only bodies in
dresses and tuxedos.

You should never
write at night.

The tunnel then
is often too tight.

You’ll experience
an awful fright.

You might have to
give up your sight.

It’s easier to be
positive in the light.

You taunt with
all your might.


No ones allowed to cut
up anyone out of spite

Your sighs fly
lower than a kite.

So no matter what time
you were right to write.

She sold
her teeth.

She sold
her hair.

Now she’s
only a tunnel.

No one knows
what’s left.

She has only
one concern.

There’s
kindness there.

Buried six
feet deep.

She can’t
look anymore.

The streets
before her
seem to shuffle.

Are there
souls underneath
those roofs?

Can you guess
for just a buck?

All the
houses tip over.

There isn’t
a single soul underneath
but loads of bodies.