The Dolls

Their eyes stare, hollow and void
of the life you expect in someone so young.
They have been drained,
Drained by the heroin, by the abuse,
by a world that has pushed them aside,
left them in a closet,
is slightly offended at their audacity
to eat with the live folk
and claim their sliver of humanity.

They are beautiful, young and unaware
of their value, pretending not to hear
the whispers at the lunch counter,
their blond hair perfect and clean,
their skin somehow still glowing,
their clothes too tight, too bright, but not bright enough
to hide their eyes.
Their dark, hollow, eyes.

About this poem

A poem about the three young women at the table next to me at the diner this morning.

No fiction, sadly.

Tom