29.11.99

She wrote a letter on the side
of her worn-out white sneaker:
"dear world, thanks for the ride,
should i plan a longer stay?"
Waiting in a clinic somewhere
in the east suburbs of reality,
close to a city of dreams,
just a short commute to hell.
She wants to be a hero,
not some monumental Wonder Woman wannabe
but in disguise, clothed in jeans
and tatty cardigans, a handkercheif
tucked roughly in her pocket.
Unassuming, passed-by, ignored
by the non-believing masses;
an angel to the needy and unloved.
She sits and thinks until her name
is called from the reception desk
floating into the doctor's office
on methadone wings
her heart breaking under the weight
of relentless mortality.

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