She has so many strikes against her
she could play a half-broken
Venetian blind left open
in an upper floor apartment
on a hot sunny afternoon
in some O’Neill drama.

The building speaks
in tongues before it bursts
into a torch song. The one
about the skyscraper
that turns it back
to the old rowhouse.

The sun never shines
in those rooms,
with or without
the curtains drawn.

She dreams she gets lost
in her own city
in a van with people
she thinks she recognizes
as friends, associates, fans
of his. He’s nowhere to be seen.

It stops at an intersection
with a view of a river and
carousel she can’t name.
Suddenly she remembers
riding it with him.
But he’s nowhere to be found.

The van stops moving.
The building stops
its low-pitched moan.
She stops sleeping.
It’s a new game, new day,
and the field is covered in dew.