How I Found Her


I entered her building,
condemned by the City,
Climbed up the moaning stairs,
condemned by time,
and in a small room, found her,
condemned by fate and
her local energy provider.

She was on her ratty couch,
curled up like a kitten,
her arms crossed and still squeezing
her shoulders together, in one last,
desperate attempt at warmth.

She wore white nylon stockings
with a hole on each knee,
and a cheap white bath robe;
She wore no make-up,
and her eyes were wide open,
staring at everything and nothing.

I radioed in the report:
Fifty-two Robinson Street…
One female, mid-forties…
No signs of forced entry…
The apartment felt like a frozen shell;
I could see my breath clearly.

I walked to her kitchen table,
and found a small, yellowish envelope.
It was a final, unpaid, NYSEG bill
and a politely cold disconnection notice.
I ground my teeth, and put the envelope
in the inside pocket of my uniform,
I don't know why.

That night I woke up next to my wife,
sweating like hell. It was weird.
I got up, drove to Wegman's,
and paid that bill in full.
I got home and looked at the clock:
it was two-thirty-nine.
My wife never woke up.