Betty

None of us realized
that no one had seen her,
it’s just not something you think about
when you're living in a ten-story anthill in New York.
A lot of paths crossed there
but there was no pattern to interrupt.
And even if there had been one,
most of us would have missed it.

The first day,
it must have been Aaron cooking something weird again,
as wildly experimental vegetarians are wont to do.
The second day,
the dogs were beginning to claw at the baseboards,
and it must have been someone’s garbage
or rats
or both.
But the third day,
it had taken on a life of its own;
a complex bouquet of fermented shit,
old flowers, and sour milk.
The dogs started whining early that Saturday morning,
as the building’s newest tenant demanded to be acknowledged
and we realized that no one had seen Betty since Wednesday.

Mr. Crespo, the Super, optimistically offered the formality of knocking
before walking in to find her
in her armchair, TV blaring,
an unfinished beer still on her snack tray.
Her skin was mottled and green-black.
and her arms were raised up high,
like a referee signalling a touchdown.