You’ll find her on Sunset Blvd
heavy eyes, lips ajar.
She picks a carnation,
white, from the neighbor's
lawn. Her face lifts and
falls, no different from
the flower, alive only
to us. Alive until
she’s nothing more
than a stem between
two fingers--a bargaining
chip for the intimate.
She sheds feelings like
they don’t belong to her
and tastes like
they tell her to.
A body goes
for less than you’d think
on the open market.
She counts the ceiling tiles:
thirteen, fourteen, fifteen;
wishing for a bigger room.
We dream because
it’s easier than living.
You’ll find her in the little
house, ready to run
if someone would ask.
She wants to trust, but trust
is when you stop
fighting. If she puts down her
fists, the world would
not recognize her.
She plays house until
there are no ceiling
tiles left to count,
or carnations to pick.
She plays house until
it’s time to run
and she runs
as though
she was
always
wild.
great realism.😿