The woman we called Morning limped
down Washington Street, asking for a dollar.
Everyone knew it was just a matter of time.
Government wasn’t an enabler. No Narcan
to resurrect zombies. Folks dropped,
leaving brown puddles. Heroin ate people.
Every day a little thinner, disappearing
into clothes like ghosts. Till they were ghosts
on Washington forever, their nothingness enough
to change moods of stray cats and dogs.
Morning would be no different. Last time
I saw her, she swallowed her teeth
before she opened her mouth to speak,
You remember me?
Did she mean from yesterday?
I searched her eyes, tried to look inside her.
We used to eat crayons together. I saw something
familiar. Delightful. Plates full of crayons.
Her sitting in a yellow romper.
Legs, hardwood-floor brown.
Two front teeth missing.
Mouth full of colored wax, laughing.