Check On Wicker Table. Leave Pizza In Front Porch

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She is a silhouette, a voice on the phone. She has a wooden screen, a dark Asian triptych, which fills her living room window. A brass floor lamp pokes out above it.

Once, I caught a rushed glimpse of her as I approached the front door. I didn't see much, she moved quickly, but my instincts said she wore a wig. Burn victim? Simply terrified?

"HAVE A NICE DAY" I begin to write in ballpoint pen on the outside of her pizza boxes. Down on the street again, I linger in my car and pretend to get organized. Then, I stare straight ahead and think about the depth of evening trees.