Mrs. Foster

Her eyes fell back to the ends of her sockets, sheltered in a hollow cave.

Dried-crackled lips

Dark- sunken- cheeks

Still as her fate

Her body laid as a map on the un-rocking rocking chair, where her history laid on her skin.

The detailed misery in the crows of her eyes

47 years of the decending creak of her chair.

Music stolen with time.

The window will not serve as a painting.

It is the mirror with no reflection.

What has happened to the bodega on 50th st?

What is "Starbucks"?