The Home and the Foster

She felt like the orange burst paint
that flaked off the walls,
or the grime off the linoleum floor
that magnetized itself on her soles;
it sparkled
like the abestos
that stumbled,
as snow drops,
on her head,
every once in a while.

She pulled the hood more secure on her head,
determined not to let the wind
waft the rain into her hair
for a second time.

(C) Marie Meyers, 2013

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