Listen 
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someone's child
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she looks about sixteen with nice family purple pants designer clean white tennies new extra large motorcycle jacket chromed jingle bells hold three or four gathered strands of her one-side-long blond hair-do hangs straight over her numbed face brushing the trinkets aside often distended hands trembling drop slackly her nodding head bumps boney teenage knees pulled close to her breast sitting on the befouled november subway platform back against the cold steel i-beam column waiting for an A train uptown perspiring she slips her black sleeves down exposes fresh magenta arm puncture bruises tracking her dilemma on the way her weighted hazed eyes oscillate in a sprint between drowsy respites urgently getting off at 42nd street |
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Janet Cannon |
