I see her every day,
Pass the corner of my street.
Leash in one hand, book in the other.
Silently shuffling her feet.
Her yellow book is open,
The leaves flap in the violent air,
But she does not glance at the words.
Does not seem like she cares
About the written work,
There is something else going on.
She blankly stares ahead
As she shuffles along.
Little things do not bother her.
Not the focus of her mind.
She has got dog fur all over her skirt.
The white, fuzzy kind.
She has bruises on her legs,
Splayed across her calves.
She strokes the scar on her stomach,
Reminds her of the kids she will never have.
Nothing is wrong, but something is not right,
You can tell by her face.
It is not sad, it is not happy.
Nor disgust of disgrace.
She is simply there.
Yet something is bothering her.
Her brows would not be that furrowed,
But I do not know for sure.
She does not talk to me,
She lacks a certain trust.
I do not know how she lost it.
But I will not make a fuss.
I know there is something that she needs
But I do not want to bother her,
I do not know where to go from here with
The girl with the skirt of fur.