An old woman sits at a window. A street runs below her. It once shuttled fattened taxis past her building. Now buses, on natural fuel, run silent as fog.
Men, one day, stopped wearing hats. Young people dressed without buttons. Taxis lost their hips. In its center, a mirror grew a round spot, like a coin fused to a fountain.
The demolition crew comes. Window, she thinks, you’ll give up before I do.
--M
Photo by Bruce Barone
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