the street artist

the police artist
was sketching another chalk
outline
of a body
in the old hood.
she'd done a few hundred
this year alone,
but she was doing it
in a way
that reminded you of
matisse,
the thick wavy lines,
or Picasso, with a head
or toro were the other
should be,
one, drapped over
the curb,
was more salvadore
dali. she put a clock
in too, dripping with time.
she'd stand back when
done, then go kneel down
for touch ups,
to crook a leg left
of right. or put
a hand raised in the air,
or chalk in the surprise
of a faceless face.