Sally Behind the Writing

I am sorry, my fellow implausible redhead,
to bind you in ballpoint. Blame
the designer who muted your patchwork dress,
made your carnival colours pastel
and drew lines inviting
writing across your limbs.
You stare out past stripes,
as if catching a tan
through cell bars; clutch
a cat, hope
that you will escape,
that a bony hand and crisscross grin
will one day part the notebook's rules
and pull you off the paper
into clay, into a kiss.