She carries a bucket, a home for a tune,

places flowers on her tongue,

peppered music note-grey.

This is her one passage: large nose to throat,

a paradigm of shame for an unimpressive dame.

She attempts to prosper, probing a posey garden,

but she is still small, a flimsy ribbon holding up

a baby bouquet,

scraping sound from her throat--

a knife working over tuna pate

from tin can to a world equally as silver, no!

Grey.

Like mold on a fruit, fuzzy microbes

wade in the spit pools.

of a girl

who has nothing to

sing, do, or

say.