She kept herself poor
A little old seared-silvered
Garbage can cover
On a funny rock
Peeling-painted chairs
A rackety table
All old pick-me-ups
From the street
Just to keep
The forlorn image
Of herself.
Indeed she was a bunny
Made of humble pie
A deflated balloon
With still the spit inside
She scooped up
All the remaining crumbs
From all the empty bags
And stored them away
For a further feast
She once read Orphan Annie
And she lived a part.