she pulls her scarf tighter
cheeks red from slapping wind
from backhanded compliments
from whatever is telling her
to be ashamed

her thoughts are worth more than
pennies or nickels
but less than train fare
less than bus fare
all the wealth of a pariah king
and no one knows what she means

at the intersection she dissects
flays herself in layers to peel back
reforming and conforming
the bitterest of the byzantine
all the pride of a pariah king
and no one knows what she means