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.