She walked home along the same roads
every day, dragging her bag behind her in the sand
or snow.
Each time she went under the overpass,
across from the burning library,
her fingers traced out whatever word
she'd heard that day
from the teacher or a sparrow,
against the dirty concrete wall.
Cars screamed by.
Headlights just alive for seconds,
lit up the walls with all
the beautiful, terrible things she'd scrawled.
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