Wee Winnie hides in the rafters or on the branches of trees.
When a grayface comes along she drops down onto its shoulders.
She’s light as eiderdown so none of them notice her right away.
She’ll ride through miles of subways that way.
Up and down in elevators, just waiting.

Sooner or later the grayface will sigh.
Sighing is how you can tell a grayface’s a grayface.
Then Wee Winnie pounces!
“What’s wrong, grayface?”
The grayface won’t even look around for her.
“I’m so depressed,” it says.
“Fuck depression,” she chirps.
This always makes the grayface feel better.
“Maybe I should just kill myself.”
“Fuck suicide!”
The grayface coughs, usually, at this point.
It knows something is wrong, but it can’t put its finger on it.
What is this strange feeling that stirs within its sawdust heart?
Is it hungry?
Sick?
Gassy?
Is it gassy?
“Fuck gastrointestinal distress!”
Wee Winnie digs her toes into its shoulder.

The elevator open on the roof somehow.
It’s always a windy, wild day at the top.
The grayface, swollen with unaccustomed rage, shakes its fists at the sun.
Wee Winnie sinks her fangs into its neck!
Like autumn leaves they blow away.