She holds her knees to her chest,
hair falls in strings over her eyes.
Strung out in an alley that is
still cobblestone here.
She does watercolors on her cheeks in black.


Underground entrance cover stained with graffiti,
padlocked after school hours
to prevent sinners and hoodlums from
smoking down there,
and what have you.


Across the street, dance studio.
A mother escorts her offspring inside, carrying satin.
You cannot walk in them outdoors.
Piano on the roof that has not been played
in a decade, I'm sure.


My legs dangle through iron bars,
stairs on either side.
Hiding behind a garden made for children
by my mother,
I watch the sun set High on fire.