Pigeon-toed all of yesterday,
with low-crawling realistic speed.
I look towards the wooden door
where she is locked in
through
glass displays,
red felt markers, high heels
clomping on the dirty tile,
though signs, through lint rugs,
and voices.
Those balls of Chiggers
that died on the Richland bridge.
Jpegs all deleted at midnight,
their blue circles vanishing,
their squares,
their notches, nudes, airbrushed
and cold.