French Doll

On a foggy night at the film festival,
     I walk on a yellow carpet of crisping ginkgo leaves,
     slipping quietly from the platform of night.
     A little tired, my voice barely a whisper.

Cradling a torn paper bag,
     I wait for the high-speed train on the platform,
     my life pressed into a simple, crumpled bag.
     Ready to leave? Luggage is nothing, only a light, empty promise.

A garden with no flowers unfolds over my knees,
     your ears, perfect and neat, but the paper blanket feels hollow,
     its corners fraying like a garden that has forgotten its bloom.
     A worn-out British tabloid drapes across my lap.

Charles and Diana’s wedding—
     I read it over and over,
     but the emblem on the white horse never arrives.
     Instead, cars at the drive-thru order hamburgers,

Twenty-four hours
     of hamburger photos, crispy fries, a paper cup smudged with lipstick,
     crumpled napkins, bent plastic straws—
     I will miss them all.

When morning comes,
     a young part-timer will find me,
     a paper doll slouched in a plastic chair,
     my life as light as paper,

Waiting for a train that never comes.
    Wasting time,
    proof that I’ve been here,
    on this dull star.

My McDonald’s is still unfinished.