Analysis of Patients

She flashes past me.
The silver bumper, from her gray,rusty car,
shocks the daydream from my eye.

She is an elf
with her pale rounded top.
Her pointy ears cuddle up to battle scars.

She, as bald as wet cement
and as soft as a child dressed in tears,
uses the pavement as her scapegoat.

Is she escaping,
riding the road far from treatment?
My thoughts finger through the possibilities.

She screeches on
miles past me
and I still feel her here.

Her shadow rests next to me
on this red,splintered bench.
We wait for the bus to take us home.