Like a tree in the road you are standing there,
cursing the sun for its lidless stare,
scoffing at the travellers moving ahead,
wondering why their feet aren't of lead
and you aren't the one with wings instead
against which light would scarcely dare.

You stand with your feet elevated,
smile with your skin devastated
by needles and tools and grease and grime,
and your hair is unyielding as the skin of a dime
and your lungs and your brain are fried and sublime.
Your eyes have all but evaporated.

Your arms are bent as if warding off flies.
Your nails are all polished and your bows are all tied.
Your fingers are curled so they won't have to touch
food or railings or people and such,
not that you allow these nearby very much:
they can't rise to your level: they've tried.

You wince in disgust at what we hold dear
yet see how fast you are to letting your tears.
You duck inside the stall and weep
with only your immediate circle to keep.
Because of your wails I can't fall asleep.
Why must you always cry so near?

You step with your whimsical skewered toes
that know your friend's backs as much as your foes.
And yet you feel you are not to blame,
instead it's the world, with unworthy shame.
You growl and you whine but all else must be tame
for if you do not approve, it goes.