He sees only the pricked-apart seam in my dress,
The tangle of sun-swept foil on the seat. Remains
Of pussy-footed privilege, a child of constant rebirth.
We live in two worlds, separated by a wall
Of silver-misted glass. Our eyes never meet; yet
I know his figure of patent porcelain, trapped
Between layers of scalding waxwork and uneasy heat,
Flames cradling in shame the flint-hardened sound
Of winter’s harshest wail. The streets cleansed of barest dust,
Then turned to living ice. I watch him leave, silent, unheeding,
Alone amidst the madness of the frieze. The green of signal refrain
Carries me away from the glare of guilt in his steeple-sunk eyes,
And an even heavier heart.