she has what others leave behind
wooden balls, good enough for eyes
she unlike others, collects what the sea washes
shark-shewed fish for bobby pins
fished out boots for her sand-bitten toes
She, the remains of others
wears wrappers from the park-benches,
and hears [strangely enough] things unsaid with
other ears, she uses to hear the insects as they move
lightly over the window's pane
A dog's ability in her nose,
she smells lying like she does flowers,
unprecedented, reeking with filth
her parts are made up of all things
tall and robust
in her are collections fit for museums
for public display and once-in-a-lifetime collector series:
In her all lies unquiet
the buzzing squares,
burnt out city lights,
unnamed streets
graffiti and wet paint
she is everything and anything she comes by
she is everything and anything she comes to enjoy
because she cannot be
a name she was once given
a person,
a self she keeps dip-dying
and how could she be
when all she finds, all she catches- her keepers
waste like an old mad woman's brain-cells to Alzheimer's?
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