When the only ladies’ dress shop closed, br she was left on the street for trash, unsalvageable, br br one arm missing, lost at the shoulder, one leg br at the hip. But she was wearing a blue-sequined negligee br br and blonde wig, so they helped themselves to her br on a lark—drunken impulse—and for years kept her br br leaning in a corner, beside an attic br window, rendered invisible. The dusk br br was also perpetual in the garage below, br punctuated only by bare bulbs hung close br br over the engines. An oily grime coated br the walls, and a decade of calendars promoted br br stock-car drivers, women in dated swimsuits, br even their bodies out of fashion. Radio distorted br br there; cigarette smoke moaned, the pedal steel br conceding to that place a greater, echoing br br sorrow. So, lame, forgotten prank, she remained, br back turned forever to the dark storage br br behind her, gaze leveled just above br anyone’s who could have looked up br br to mistake in the cast of her face fresh longing— br her expression still reluctant figure for it.