This wall won’t reveal
the details behind
its missing picture.
Could have been

a photo, painting, collage,
or participation plaque.
The snaggletooth nail
won’t tell.

She’s taken herself
so out of context,
her dreams resemble
sequences from a Cocteau film.

A strong wind
rips a sapling,
roots and all,
from its tree lawn bed.

The wreckage hurts her
the way seeing
a full-grown dead
(human) body wouldn’t.

She watches four women
she’s never seen before
remove belongings
from a downstairs apartment.

For their finale,
they haul
an overstuffed red sofa
out the back door.

She wonders if
Siri is around to give directions.
Or Morgan Freeman, the latest
GPS navigation voice.
She wants to ask:

Who are you?
Where are you going?
How do you know Morgan Freeman?
Is there a god?

Instead, she returns
her gaze to the blank wall.
Its silence
may as well soothe.