The Consultant for the Mayor

You can never tell By the looks of a frog How high it can leap, Said her Auntie Ott. Haley's hair flips up and down As she moves in her hard shoes, Her leather coat for winter Is lengthy and sways, some stains Mottling the bottom— Elegant windows in decline That at one time One could climb through, French imitation Nailed shut for decades. In shadow Pigeons peck in dirty snow Massed against the closest wall. What her hair will look like someday, She surmises. But otherwise Isn't troubled by the future. Don't walk like a duck, Men don't like it, said Auntie Ott. Not necessarily, responded her grandmother, As she brushed a crumb onto a saucer— Playing cards, stories of earlier poverty. As a girl she pretended To be as worried as they Whether Bobby would be drafted And killed in the war. Maybe she's important in art Or decoration, supposes the student Adjusting his pack— As the light changes, he steps out But she banks around the corner Behind him, purseless, gloveless, Passing a restaurant, a coin store, A key shop—owners staring over the street Wishing they were younger. Or lived in an earlier time. Which is partly the fault Of late winter. Clittering ice In trees of Veteran's Park. . . Lightly swinging her arms now, Heading uphill, growing distant, Like a figure studied In Auntie Ott's Utrillo print— Stick-like, scarecrow-like— To her right, a converted house Looking vaguely like a shrunken Monticello. . . Cream-colored barriers Of plowed snow as sun sprays More volume. . . A moment of deception There's not much that can be done, Said the city, when the oaks Were removed for curb repair. The dome fell off the theatre. A policeman peering east, frozen. Just as the museum is shuttered Next to the blank bowling alley (which is our other perspective). Haley has never felt trapped, Though the possibilities, occasionally, Have skirted about like sparrows. A jet crosses the sky. Followed by its vibration. What she found sustaining She learned in college. Where she goes is no one's business Either. Neither is she worshipped And adored—Auntie Ott Would be dismayed. Though not entirely