The chill is cause to pull one thin layer tightly over another;
Kid gloves are tattered, exposing white fingertips, chafed knuckles.
A diamond will not be parted with, kept rolled to the palm,
Keeping one solitary memory vaguely warm.
She has nothing now.
Stands on a corner with a sign
Begging,
Reduced to a caricature of her former self…
Praying God no one identifies
The Maven of Maple Leaf Square.
Winter coming;
Once a time of making lists, brewing grog, scent of cinnamon in the air;
She dreads the season
Of glittering store windows
Cheerful shouts in the streets,
Her head only filled with the odor of her rotting teeth.
She has nothing now.
Tearing a piece of stale bread, she fills her mouth,
While words fall out
Spoken to no one, as her eyes dart from nothing to nothing,
Fearing eavesdroppers.
She is a shredded woman.
No longer thick of skin nor high of chin
Once she gave for the joy of giving
But
She has nothing now.
.
.
sad
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