There is a Mary every few doors down
the block; in a small creche under the trees
or tight up against the house, overgrown
with wire grass or chicory to her knees
of cheap cast plaster, whiter than bleached bone.
Each looks so forlorn and abandoned there,
with great sorrow on her beseeching face,
watching the seasons pass under her stare
and silently yearning to leave her place,
to speak out, to travel again, somewhere.
20 FEB 2003
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