She is sere. Her features, verging on a shriek reviling age, Flee from death in odd directions somehow retained by a web of wrinkles. The site of vanished breasts is marked by a safety-pin. Rigid at rest against the corner-stone of a department store. Hers alone to model the last creation, Original design of destitution. Clothed in memorial scraps skimpy even for a skeleton. Trimmed with one sudden burst of flowery cotton half her black skirt glows as a soiled mirror; reflects the gutter - a yard of chiffon velours. |