Hang before the blinded eyes of her
refused existence. She scissors
snow drifts between her legs,
wishing to change her knitted wool
clothing to money to match the price tags' numbers.

Unhappiness
sounds in well-stuffed piggy banks, heavy
enough to break the car-shaped bank's plastic wheels.
Miss Liberty drops her torch in a fish bowl.
The Brooklyn Bridge
gives itself to nature and spills pennies on the carpeting.
A John Deere
tractor sinks into the dresser top's wood grain.

She sees price tags on her heather,
on her box fan and opportunity's doors,
on her mail box and light bulbs,
on her lamp shades, windows, and door knobs,
on the cross bucks shunning unfriendly ghosts,
on bourbon jugs, beer bottles, and water faucets,
even on her mouth, fingers, and palms
--price tags, price tags, price tags.