Suicide Shorty

leaves the shelter at 10.
The night her dark stocking cap.
Her decision like a ripped hacky-sack.
Her future like the moon hidden by clouds;
some labeled memories, some adolescence.
On the bus Suicide eyes a generic
Help the Homeless sign and hears a loud
sarcastic man complain about property taxes.
She shivers.

The shelter staff ask, "What Will Happen?"

Suicide Shorty's friends hang out at motels.
They forget her real name
or what type of suicide she's tried.
She's good to look at and feel
when they're bored. They decided she's
a bedroom token: body fluids on sheets,
cigarettes burning in an ashtray.

The shelter staff ask, "What are your options?"

She waits for the sun to rise.
Scratches her head and picks a scab from her legs.
Suicide dreams of money, twinkies, an empty room,
and a black sports car,
the color of the For Sale sign
branded to her jogging outfit.

With a car she'll travel to cities
where reflections from skyscraper windows
blind her; travel to the suburbs
where fences and flowers guard her from
neighbors; across the country
stopping at quick serves to buy
coffee and three stale donuts; or travel across
the border where children would smile
and politely forget her;
a kind gesture.

A car to help her be
what she was promised
as a beautiful baby.

The shelter staff as, "What about safety?"