Written April, 2009, revised here.
She’s like a monkey in the morning, searching through her fleas. She’s got molding mashed potatoes where others keep their keys. Her cloths are an invitation to voice a mother’s sense of dread “That’s what you’re gonna look like son if you wear your cloths to bed.” Her shopping cart is over flowing from items she hasn’t bought as she whines her way past other slaves of the City of New York. She's lost her taste for liquor, forgotten loving sex, eats at the rescue mission and sings in that choir when she gets picked. Her face is a chubby cluster of blackened cherry cobbler cheeks. bruised by sun and wind and horny, discourteous souls who have taken what she could keep. Then she takes a nap, takes a crap on the City of New York.
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