below the 3rd floor fire-blackened brick
& empty windows, torn curtains hanging,
a young woman,
rag tied about her hair,
curls falling at her ears,
waves & calls to slicked-up goodtime Charley
who’s strutting thru the scraps,
giant ring on his pinky finger,
black & white tu-tones shining.
he stops, tilts his hat, gazes above, shakes his head
& turns, heading thru the garbage cans
to the door leading to her darkened stairs.