Watching the children, young
men and women
stumble from buildings on Sunday morning.
Sweatpants, sunglasses, concealed eyes
and muzzled mouths with
vodka breath.

And then
you see her walking
behind them
(because she thinks they can
let her sing out).
Spot scars that seem like
someone tried to erase her
to keep a piece.

They go in the cafe,
speaking of conquests, but
she keeps her night from being
sung out.

Eating the food,
greasy and heavy,
its only use is to fill up the void.

But you know where she was last night,
singing for him
while you sat in
the silent room,
except for the notes of the C scale
that drifted through the concrete walls.

Wonder why
it was his fingers that were able to
wind her —
a frail music box
designed to only play the song
that he wanted,
that they all want.

And Monday evening you see
her
again with her
eyes and ears open
to a blue jay perched—
cottonwood —
keen melody,
instinctive song.