She could generate a laugh
from the tarred sacks of her lungs,
from cholesterol clogged veins,
from the empty pockets of torn jeans.
She could say,
like the rattle of a car
spitting black fumes
and popping loud shot-gun blasts.
She never dreamed of escape,
a way out.
She never reminisced
or stirred ancient ghosts with her running mind.
She walked forward –
She slid on her pants, one leg at a time,
from the stranger’s bedroom floor.
She was so alive they envied her poorness.
She was a feast to behold –
© Laura A. Lord, 2015
Thank you to The Sunday Whirl for their prompt this week.