by Alex Ranieri

You should’ve seen the back of her head laid flat

against the Civic Opera Building.

Such careless hair-- red thrown out over

shoulders, over

the small of her back, it shocked

the gray staid monolith, straight shooting,

and the dull, grimed-up river

and the iron in the bridge.

It shocked me-- and I stopped to stare

(unpolitely). I stopped

to consider

the permanent clouds

and her face, which must

be beauty in a can.

She turned,

and was a bag of old, sagging skin.