Her Portrait

Her portrait watches

neighbors shuffle in,

wondering

who she was,

and maybe

find a deal.

She hears them whisper

once she was a beauty,

once she was rich.

They don’t know

for certain, she kept

to herself.

She watches them

run hands over

brocade and velveteen,

try on her jewelry,

rifle through her

evening dresses,

squabble over her shoes.

She watches them

walk out with

parts of her life,

fracture her façade.

As in life,

she is unwanted.

She sits at the curb,

the trash truck is coming.

published in Paddler Press Volume 6 “Changes,” republished on Garden of Neuro