Paula

Paula, not really attractive.
Chubby, one might've said.
Pimples on her chin and pins in her hair,
Paula dressed as well as she could
Using money from her invalid mother's scant welfare check;
Skirts and blouses
From the rummaged counters
Of bargain discount stores;
Powders and rouges
From her mother's top bureau drawer.

Paula, seated at the piano,
Shunned by her classmates,
Wanders alone along the familiar keyboard
Picking out melodies that pass through her mind.
Befriending stray tunes,
Losing them,
Finding them,
Losing them again.
This was a game Paula played.
A sort of hide-and-seek,
Substituted in place of the real game
She had overheard her classmates talk about.

Paula's dreams became her companions.
These companions were the tunes she played.
Paula's dreams had no past,
Only a make-believe present.
The future was unknown to her
Except as a vague notion
She had gotten from the tinted pictures
In her tattered history textbook at school.

Paula's dreams seemed merry and bright,
Her tunes glowing with the carefree thoughtlessness
Of childhood happiness and hope,
Yet underlying the sadness and sorrow
In knowing that her world
Was really just pretend.

Last Tuesday evening,
Paula was hit by a car
While crossing a street
On her way home from school.
The driver of the car had tried to stop,
But too late.

Last Tuesday evening,
Paula died.

Her classmates were sorry,
And said so.
They said they would miss her,
And I believe them.
Some didn't seem to care,
While others said she would be no loss.

This poem is from Collected Poetry of Thomas A. Ekkens—Early Works.