Through my bathroom window I hear
the crackling tide of the old lady’s
shower against her identical tall
glass tank in the next apartment.
There can’t be many pleasures left.
Speech is gummed, sight fogged,
and she leaves bags of cookies at my door
sometimes, with notes: “can’t have sweets!”.
She only bathes at night.
Maybe under the water she moves without pain,
a mermaid again, like all girls are:
born to the air, hearts in the sea.