You watch the street through glass, avert your face to the room, I see you have spotted me. I let it go; I order soup. That guy in red pants sidles up to you, you make room for him, he orders too.

I break and eat a little bread, and I remember that day in the park, you slipped out of the tree, tearing your one good dress, I was scolded and I cried. That guy in red stares at me now, I know you are telling him I let you down. If I could care at all, I would tell him to lock his door at night, and not let you in, but that was then and I am all out of skin.

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