She'll always be a seamstress now,

sewn into a simple black dress,

invisibly mended. Forever on the back fire escape

folded down, the same shoulder length auburn hair,

singing "Tonight" in a dubbed voice.

She wanted to sing her own songs, but

they wouldn't let her. And the Puerto Rican boys.

They're gone, left their aubergine and mango silk shirts

lying in a dumpster in an alley on the West Side,

moved to the Big House, an integrated community,

wear green jumpsuits and watch old movies,

like Splendor in the Grass,

on Friday nights. After lights out,

they lie on their backs in bunk beds

with their arms folded behind their heads and

talk quietly about how she died,

so unexpectedly. The lead lives in the suburbs

with his wife and three children.

He works long hours as a landscaper,

wears blue jeans and white t-shirts with

logos on them saying Save the Planet; at night

has wet cellulose dreams

making unrequited love to Natalie.

He's never gotten over her.