She is sere.
Her features,
verging on a shriek
reviling age,
flee from death in odd directions
somehow retained by a web of wrinkles.
The site of vanished breasts
is marked by a safety-pin.
Rigid
at rest against the corner-stone
of a department store.
Hers alone to model
the last creation,
original design
of destitution.
Clothed in memorial scraps
skimpy even for a skeleton.
Trimmed with one sudden burst
of flowery cotton
half her black skirt
glows as a soiled mirror;
reflects the gutter—
a yard of chiffon velours.