yesterday, approximately 4:10 PM

a sandy snail has
taken up residence in
the curve of her lip,

the delicate trough
made by an angel's finger
moments before birth.

she hasn't noticed.
her concern lies solely with
the playground's bounty:

a collection of
broken toys, sticks, and pebbles,
so full of promise

that she hasn't time
for neatness, this feral child,
this urchin of mine.