Curated, she sits at the window
framed by Edwardian glass and a touch of Orla Keily.
She cannot look up
Or down
Or to any side.
Frozen with a drape of Hepburn around her throat.
Still, in time and space.
High, high above the street;
her view is good.
Down on the street
I walk and swing my arms because I can.
I smell the roses and look up at her
But she cannot look down on me.
I am no dummy.