Under the sun someone shaped this iron into curves for a chair like a corset our grandmothers never spoke of. This is the art we cannot use for rest as the music hall's sound is swallowed inward. It is hard in the city to let one blend into the other. The man without shelter whose skin is a brown rain has never heard the insult of such beauty. It might be a memory for him a long notation of loss never heard by others. He will not see the ingrown ease of strangers seeking their own potency or know we weep with no pain in sight. Or he may know all of this like the rich ladies in wheelchairs but too deeply for a consolation that cannot turn the iron into straw.