Like a crumpled paper bag,
she lay in the bushes behind
the gas station.
We noticed her because
of a shoe-less foot
glowing in the dark.
Her legs were limp, her arms
were folded in as though
they had given up, and
the fetid clothing had grown
into her. Yet there was an active
brain and the eyes, when one
found them, sparkled under
the streetlight as she
responded, coherently.
We got our answers, she got
her candy and tobacco,
but she also moved into
my mind; maybe through
a dried-out tear duct,
when I became distracted
momentarily by the dirt-
encrusted, exposed torso,
and collapsed
in a dark corner
of my consciousness.
She will never move out.
Selected by Raymond Huffman
