marilyn

She moves
like a torn sail,
like she has lost everything
to the wind
and even more
to the life.

She drags
like a cold cigarette
and ashes drip
from stubby lashes.

Imagine
she was once Marilyn,
or thought she was,
and gauze drifts
from angry knees.

She moves
from person to ugly person,
searches the faces
for recognition of
something they've never seen
and never will.

She sits finally, a
misshapen memory,
a postcard wish,
a used stamp.