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.