^{Narrator:
I know for a fact Quelly was an artist for she carried paper bags
around with little jars of paint she’d stolen.
This was in case anyone asked “Are you an artist” but no one ever did.}

The waitress lives in a room above a garage

She places fruit on the sill for sun sweet warmth

She imagines she’s a guest in a room in a castle but she is not

Every night she visits the mortuary to see her future

Days she sells crescent rolls shaped like

                  crescent moons shaped like

                  crescent cats curled up

                  in her imaginary arm

Isn’t there some applause for her lonely life?
 

Some days she’s busy with anatomies wearing people

Some days she’s idle with their trappings

She watches the clock

And then the clock watches her

I would defend her if I could but she drinks from her own

Cup of blueberry tea. She calls from the window    Help!