when the buttons on sweaters and pants pop off, through button holes i place them in pockets and lose them in the wash. a trash picker on the frozen ground the sun shining betrayal peeled off two layers of gloves one brown and one white to accept my charity dollar for his poverty, my poverty he smiled in chilly surprise. even now that I'm not broke my hair will stay untrimmed rasta-woman until the day I die. the last time I cried all day, in grief a month ago, as I spelled my name for the woman behind the counter as she soberly dispensed my choice of freedom.