On cold street corners she stands all day
waving tattered papers bound in cloth
no name to speak of until someone buys
books she peddles for a dime each
Starving artists like her await
opportunities divulged by faithful waits
when a curious passerby can stop
and open an abandoned treasure box
Uncover my name, she cries
let me prove I can write new tomorrows
glance but once at their perfection
then you shall love them as I do
Promises bold and promises unfulfilled
as long as she continues to wave
tattered pages that whisper to her
but otherwise fall on silent ears.
Will you pause to read awhile?
It would make the poor girl smile
you might even enjoy her wiles
eager to place a foot on the ladder.
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