Mannequin

At first I thought she was a mannequin,
propped up on the retaining wall
where the unhoused people beg.

She didn't have a cardboard sign,
and she wasn't trying to make eye contact
with the passing drivers,
hoping to encourage them to offer
whatever sort of change they could.

Her skin was the color of cream,
and as smooth as porcelain;
her eyes were small, uncolored,
to match her colorless lips.

Her body seemed too slight
to house a human soul,
and though motionless,
it ached to swim within the plaid hoodie
that contained it.

But whatever yearning the body had,
her eyes showed none at all.
While her colleagues' bodies showed the ravages
of negligence and need,
her face showed nothing.

Ostracized from humanity,
she had completed the task on her own,
until all that was left
was a pristine, vacant shell.

At first I thought she was a mannequin,
and despite the flesh and breathing,
perhaps she was.

09.10.25