SUBJECT>Re: Rags Flapping POSTER>BJ EMAIL> DATE>1112952908 IP_ADDRESS>NET66-37-174-103.wave.hicv.net PASSWORD>aapQxMDWF2RXc PREVIOUS>85922 NEXT> IMAGE> LINKNAME> LINKURL>

Well, I'm feeling some pity for this woman and a lot of disgust that she would feel so much like shit. These are the type of women who stay in battered homes. The rusty trash truck kind of throws me out of the poem into this sudden thinking about the "perfect light's" job. The other descriptions sound like a character out of Dickens.
sincerely
BJ

: She stands in his doorway a pauper
: her shadow grimy in the glow
: of his perfect light, she cannot
: see herself anywhere but in the box itself
: the way the walls meet in a curse
: the way the new woman
: scurries out of sight. She opens her mouth
: to speak and starvelings fall to the floor
: puling at her feet. He makes
: a chopping sound in his throat,
: and doesn't look at her, mendicant
: in shabby shoes, rusty trash truck -
: there is no common topic. Child in hand
: (at last at last) she leaves, rags
: flapping.