I was reading Finley
in a Settlement waiting room
secure in my obscurity
when I heard him down the corridor
playing his scales
before we ran out of money
and he gave up music.
History is perfected
in the person and the person
is a scatter.
A girl with a red cat
and prayer wheel of daily meds,
a man winding a motor on the table
over a Lucky and coffee,
a girl with plaster horses
in some mansion,
Für Elise from a balcony,
sunny and empty,
or a boy on that bike,
wind at his back,
jacket ballooning.