She lifts her fingers to her face
And wonders what life is really about
What love could possibly bring
And what the ideas could turn into

A blaring bit of a yellow sign
Telling of times, places
Warnings of what to do and what not to do
Plastered on walls, surrounding her
And the scent of oil and the fumes of exhaust
Both of the human and the mechanical types
Dripping and plopping down onto carefully guarded skin

The bench molds to her body
Encasing her in a glass case that preserves the beauty that of the untainted
She sits much like a porcelain doll
Wide eyed, unblinking
As she realizes that thinking on such subjects
Are just unnecessary