bianca

Stephanie Schneiderman

Bianca didn?t have to ask
Her skin was like leather
Her eyes were like a deer?s
In the cold november weather
Her favorite color was green
She offered up the only thing she could
Silver beads

There on a street corner
On a cold november midnight
Lost in the city
Lost in her dark life
Like a dirty postcard
Passed around and used
When did your dreaming end
Bianca
She spoke about a man
Who loved and left her
She said wasn?t any good
To go and remember
She?d been beaten down
She wore it on her face
How can someone take the cold
With that kind of grace