The mannequin

She speaks Chapeaux,
the language of the hats,
scarves, short dresses,
and long coats.
 
Like a cat,
she spends her days in the window,
looking at people
and their ugly, soft bodies.
 
I suspect she killed the window dresser,
but she'll never tell.
 
She speaks expensive silence.
 
At night, she strolls into the dreams
of desperate men
and beggars.
 
I don't speak Chapeaux,
nor expensive anything,
 
but I see her wink:
Come in. It's cold outside.