Once a year, No Last Name Given thinks about setting an extra place at her small table;
even in the echoing closeness of her studio off Park, the extra place setting she never follows through on,
never followed through on,
rings alternate histories and any future away from that studio off Park.
Sirens in the night don’t wake her anymore like memories of two cries wake her,
hands shaking from poor decisions from circumstance and not enough heat this winter aren’t what keeps her from writing him a letter.
A tasteless microwave meal, eaten alone to the hum of pipes and muffled conversation;
really this day is no different than yesterday.
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