That mannequin torso
I see inside the second floor corner
apartment window facing West 15th
is no Apollo. Has nothing

but its center shell
that won’t encase a heart to shape
and display a wool great
coat, button

down cotton shirt, knit shawl, black
choker, silk tie. From an icy street,
I study its lamplight glow after dark
and suddenly remember

I have one too. And
she hasn’t lost her head.