Detroit Boxtrain Wood Finisher

I once knew this girl who, everything she owned,

was missing parts.

Her car was missing a window,

her coat lost a lapel.

Her thirteen-year-old cat was missing a tooth,

her bank card was missing an expiration date,

her left finger, or the pinky farthest left,

was gone. The bookstore never had

what she wanted, and at concerts

she left during the last song.

She had this bright glow about her,

like seeing a coin lying on the sidewalk

but she never had pockets.