Shelf Life

She chooses her words carefully
at lulls in conversation
trying hard not to flatter the silence
never depriving the cute boys of their
two seconds of eye contact:

And she knows, she'll never find salvation
in this town,
for if nothing ever happens, certainly
nothing like true love will,
and she can't write the poems because
her sense of dignity, a study in mirrors,
won't let her use those words
like pride like strength unless she
means them

so she's chosen a dirty grey sweatshirt
and arms hugging herself in from the cold
mouth closed sitting on a bench

thinking maybe after all another dull night
looks like snow

to her they're baby stars falling