She doesn't mind the cold.
It's an excuse to rummage through the free clothes bin,
and explore the latest offerings.
Nothing warms her heart more than a pretty new outfit.
She likes to dress in layers.
It suits her complexity.
On the streets, a polyester scarf,
stiff with grease and canned heat scent,
translates to feather boa.
She likes to decorate with colors;
glassine bangles, cast-off sparklies,
abandoned treasures, begging reclaimation.
She likes to make the old things new.
They speak to her.
They are extensions of her soul.
She doesn't want your pity or advice.
Small change for a bite will suffice,
a moment of acceptance,
if she chooses your companionship,
on a brief leg of her adventure.
She doesn't want to be inside,
on pills, obeying rules, behind locked doors.
She prefers the streets,
to being flat,
snapped into cotton-gowns at night.
She feels vagrant and unattractive in white.