Strolling (a revision)

She strolls alone
bundled in a fraying peacoat,
eyes scattered toward the ground
and peeking above scarf-folds
hiding her face like a lace veil.
Only, her lace is flannel,
and the flagged ends of the scarf
dangle down past her knees.
She strolls alone,
the city night a familiar hallway,
and imagines a new family portrait
for each building, all hanging in mosaic
along the walls: star-strung and black;
new blocks becoming new wings,
she builds a slow-growing mansion
for her slow-growing gallery. She strolls alone,
the sound of her legs scratching across the sidewalk
reminding her of an army of boyfriends' back rubs
soothing her to sleep; thinking of her night-mansion
she imagines bedrooms. She strolls alone,
draughting at red lights and cross walks,
each passing car a sudden waterfall crash.
When she stops and intersections are busy,
the traffic is thick and a conveyor belt of tumults,
a refrain of orchestral hits sweeping past her,
inches away. She strolls alone,
breathing deep into her scarf
while her eyes water
against the chill of the opposing breeze;
her night-mansion now on the coast,
a hurricane blowing against it,
she imagines rushing to her high windows,
closing them, shutting out the storm,
scrambling down the long halls
empty of pedestrians
and the relationship of mutual ignorance
she shares with them. She strolls alone
arms cinched in pockets,
the thin slopes of her shoulders jabbing
sharp into the empty stillness swallowing
the around-her.