She has a tightening grip on hope. 
It hasn't come as easily as you might venture to accuse.
Anyone could just sit and stare
at the way she reaches out for it,
clinging to it like cigarette smoke tainting your favorite t-shirt.
It may get washed and dried out,
and come through the line smelling of foul detergent,
but you can always return to that hazy bar.

When she holds it, like sand between her cupped fists,
the way she settles into her own sense of comfort
until it slips through her fingers..
You watch her eyes grasping hungrily,
like a starving hawk, beady eyes peeled,
at that sliver of well-worn hope that lives in her pocket,
like it's the only thing keeping her chained to life.
In her hands she holds
the type of hope that's just this side of heartbreak