in the gap between the tarmac
a pink opium poppy
                 - tattered - blooms

and she walks with splayed feet
- in pastel clothes - half dyed -
washed up from the toes
past the turned in knees
to the polka-dot double pram'd shoulders
- gurgling lullabies in plodding tune

they say she had to choose a number
                     - one two three -
and whichever she picked
                        would not flower