I am discarded ice
sculpture. Placed
alongside a loading 

dock outside the rail
corridor, I will not melt
this far north. I’m a swan, 

pedestal, easel-shaped. I’m
what’s left after a party
where I might have been 

the center
of attention, or highly visible
aside. Now I am what you see 

when you escape out the back—or
just dream of it
while taking another drag.