She’s the kind of girl no one really knows–dancing
alone at weddings with violets
in her hair.
She’s everyone’s friend
and no one’s
as she presses a cigarette
to her chapped lips
and looks right through
all of them.
She’s always a tourist, the permanent
visitor–collecting them all like souvenirs.
She keeps a shrine of red plastic cups
in her pick-up truck
to remember a life that was once hers.
All of the boys think they’re in love with her,
but no one can be sure.
No one can be sure.