The leftover pieces of chalk

she uses on street corners

to draw the faces of women,

tall in high heels,

high fashion clothes,

waiting at stop lights,

are lipstick shades

She outlines their eyes

in mascara blues

and leaves them blank

On sunny days her drawings

color the intersections she crosses

on her way to somewhere unknown

until the nubs of chalk crumble

into powders marbling

her little girl hands

She works in quick hard slashes

with a fury that causes her subjects

to step back and wonder

if something might be wrong,

where she lives and goes to school,

and should they make a call

Just a latch key kid, they figure,

who never looks up twice

once she begins sketching

and never answers back

except to say, “Fine”