Soft Streaks

Christen got pink and whined, jumping

small leaps like a frog with a limp muscle.

People stared with dilated eyes−her father

blushing and hushing the child. The clerk

repeats, “will that be all sir?” All he can

do is stammer out chewed-up phrases.

She is unaware of values and figures.

To her it’s only paper. Christen was once

caught coloring green Jackson’s with

pink crayon. She knew life was easy, but

that man there−

stands on the road with a sign she cannot read.

Christen becomes calm, like an empty beer bottle

tossing back and forth in murky lake waves.

The clock ticked away as if it was a face, and the

minute hands were a twisting mustache to

show his fury. Her father could see her Jesus-like

compassion behind his green reading glasses—she pointed

to the corner of the street. She walked through

lifeless grass with traffic being the only sound when she

gave her candy bar to the man with the sign.

I wrote this poem a while ago, and tried to change some of the words and layout recently. However, I still feel like I could change some words or lines for it to be more effective. I don't feel that the poem should be tossed just changed in order to get the meaning across maybe a little better.