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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.