Baby Girl

She stands, on the corner
of Too Late and What
Might’ve Been. Looking
into dark windows of
a passerby, she is left wondering,
“How?” lips pursed, crinkled nose.

Short skirts and halters,
varying colors, one size,
nothing more, for no less.
That’s the motto, it’s
what it has to be. She glances
down, thinking of those longing eyes.

“Sleep tight, Baby Girl,” her
eyeshadow absorbing the moisture
of realities. Standing silent, she longs
for picturesque impossibilities, decided
long before Baby Girl came about,
lasting long after. Maybe forever.

Yanked into reality, her once
brilliant auburn hair jolts her presence.
A tingling spans her body,
raw, from daily misuse. Pain shoots
down her back, though cringing
not from hurt, but lagging hope.
Don’t worry Baby Girl, never gone.