The wind winds up and smacks
the back side of a newspaper sheet
as it jogs along the gravel of the projects.
There is a cacophony of sounds
but always discernible is a baby's cry
and a young mother singing, ah, la-la, la-la

la-la
an aria.
Crystalline, tentative, sorrowful.
Where did her young man go?
Where do all the young men go?