If I really am walking with ordinary habit br past the same rest home on the same local street br and see another waiting head at that upper front window, br just as she would always sit, br watching for anyone from her wooden seat, br then anything can be true. I only know br how each night she wrote in her leather books br that no one came. Surely I remember the hooks br of her fingers curled on mine, though even now br will not admit the times I did avoid this street, br where she lived on and on like a bleached fig br and forgot us anyhow; br visiting the pulp of her kiss, bending to repeat br each favor, trying to comb out her mossy wig br and forcing love to last. Now she is always dead br and the leather books are mine. Today I see the head br move, like some pitted angel, in that high window. br What is the waiting head doing? It looks the same. br Will it lean forward as I turn to go? br I think I hear it call to me below br br but no one came no one came br .