She's on her way
out tonight,
all dressed up;
heart dangling
round her neck -
bare, stripped
of all but childhood
moments, held up glistening
to the light;
a weight moving about
as she hurries down the street
to the bus stop,
making her aware
of what she has
to carry, what there is
to hold on to
when so much is lost
with the rain
down the grates.
She can see children playing
twilight games,
but she's not a child:
her feet are not naked and sore,
no scrapes on her knees
anymore. She carries her pain
in out of sight places.