her words dusty tired worn
holy spirit elements exhausted
she retreats to the echoes of chipped thoughts woven in the breeze of city light
the building of her birth stands silent
alone like her
taps and clacks threshold her ear
the scent of her mother writing lists
safety plans never played out
her head leans left
rests on her palm distracting worry
tea spills a little from her fractured
Goodwill dollar vintage cup
a stray from a service for twelve
the warm weep feels good on her skin