How the woman at the window sees
before looking—her city of hours haloed in risen fumes,
its pitch and flurry, its bleats and honks,
rumbling over the concrete plains,
those corridors of the constant.
Chase or escape,
the pace so unrelenting she suspects the scene
is a digital loop
though someone’s forgotten how to render green
and the people wear the faces they wore yesterday,
as she has worn these streets for years.
How many hamburgers sold til we grow our own Eden?
And how many has she eaten already
trying to fill all their mouths?
Still she wonders what waits in line
at those finger-smeared turnstiles of the coming,
in the wake of another period of mourning,
knowing the future arrives in an unmarked package
after a surprise knock on the door.
So she leaves the house unlocked,
stands alone in her shadow as the sky
begins to bruise her name, her book of addresses
written, rewritten, re-rewritten, scratched out:
deleted until she has no more pockets to unfill.
fiction poetry "fact" photography