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Last Monday
Folder:
The Pixie Dust She had eyes the shade of the hearse that drives past my house every other sunday.
The man next door runs the morgue.
She walks past my house, on schedule
Every other Monday and Thursday
Hair matted down, eyes kissing concrete
Worn out sneakers dress her feet.
A woman with a sharp tongue,
She bites harder than her bark
The rips in her coat from the fued filled with faux friends.
Slashes from the rocks by the river
Hair still unwashed,
From last Monday.
The hearse drove by on Monday.
And she didn't walk through my yard.
