To the holes in her socks
To the mats in her hair
To the grease in her pores
To the dirt in her nails
You don’t know her story nor the stress she may wear
Nor her laughter nor smile and silent whisper
For all you see is a  passing figure
For you to laugh at and to snort and snicker
So walk to a door that is locked shut
and quietly stare to see if she gives a flying ****