Incomplete Version Of The Writer
In the hall,
she is waiting but nobody comes.
She is staring at the sun through art deco windows,
nobody knows why she is there.
On her feet
Orange slippers like the hotel carpet
Miss Marple on her mind again,
but nothing else.
No thoughts bite her
she's an incomplete version of the writer.
She's a shadow of her former self.
She's a jigsaw with the edges missing.
She's a book without a shelf.
There she sits
sipping lemonade in sparkling glass.
Touch the rim of the drink with millionaires' fingers
Watching the birds that peck outside.
And her hair
made of carefully adopted curls,
is scuplted every morning loose
like she can't choose
something tighter
she's an incomplete version of the writer.
She is looking for a part that's gone.
She's a robot with uncertain circuits
and no one to lean upon.
Empty eyes
shelter sunlight from the great machine
hiding many thoughts of murder and love broken slowly,
nobody cares why she is there.
In her coat
is a fragment of a yellow note.
Some words once fresh and blue now old,
and tired and brown
that once were brighter,
she's an incomplete version of the writer.
She's a drifter in a listless mist
and the love that was approaching slowly
died unkissed.
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