Anna's got unsavory passion for heavy brows and bent lips.
She used to tell me, "Baby, you're so strong."
From the top of the spiral stairs, she'd sing songs.
I never felt comfortable, but I'd hum along.
The beer got cheap.
My sorrows got expensive.
The first of December, the blackbird, the rent check,
and chicken scrawl sent her into the snow.
I watched through gap'd fence.
I watched through portal
while Anna danced barefooted with a politician
who looked like Dylan Thomas, but spoke like
Don Juan.
What a wicked woman.
What a fucking cacophony.
What an icy wind.
What a fever dream.