The cracked teacup nested in the pool
of rain, gold leaves wicked on its side
and across the sodden grass
like so many gloves. This is the vacant lot
with the tumble of shredded cardboard,
the winking cans, bereft weeds.
She walked across, gingerly. Noting
none of the glum details, only the general
sense of abandonment. Was she foolish
for walking here, she wondered,
at the same time telling herself
she could do with some drama, evidence
she had not become invisible, untethered,
a fog girl. She looked ahead at the sour yellow
of the streetlight and then to the brick wall
with holes where windows had once been
and felt the eyes of nothingness flick
across her skin and move on.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 16, Issue 2.