Under the sun
someone shaped this iron
into curves for a chair
like a corset our grandmothers never spoke of.
This is the art we cannot use for rest
as the music hall's sound is swallowed inward.
It is hard in the city
to let one blend into the other.
The man without shelter
whose skin is a brown rain
has never heard the insult of such beauty.
It might be a memory for him
a long notation of loss
never heard by others.
He will not see the ingrown ease
of strangers seeking their own potency
or know we weep with no pain in sight.
Or he may know all of this
like the rich ladies in wheelchairs
but too deeply for a consolation
that cannot turn the iron into straw.