by Ben Morton

Created on: January 26, 2007   Last Updated: May 14, 2007

Dry Bones.

Skeletal girl with blistered feet,
Standing on sun-bleached stones.
Pretty pastels; blue and pink.
Long flowing skirt,
Hardly moves in the still and stifling air.
No hint of make up,
Little more than skin and bones.
Faded pink plastic bracelet,
Twice wrapped in loose circles round her narrow wrist.
Huge black art folder which belies her emaciated form.
Dry hair tightly wrenched into two short braids,
A perfume smelling much too strong,
But not altogether unpleasant,
Like some strange child-safe adhesive.
I sit behind her on the tedious bus ride,
I can count each vertebra, even through her loose blouse,
The too-visible hair stands out on her thin neck, shoulders, and arms,
Like the skin of some animal,
Starving to death.
I doubt she weighs as much as one of my legs..
I'm certain she doesn't know what I think about it,
Nor does she likely care.
I wonder what she eats,
If she eats.
Oh well, at least she's fashionable.

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