The girl in red 
on the wall
above the door
[of the Montmartre] 
to my right—your left—
is NOT Anne Frank. 

She’s not the girl 
[was she blond?] 
in the red winter coat 
in a maudlin sea of black and white 
in Schindler’s List. 

She’s not peeking through the door 
to see her parents 
dancing to invisible waltzes 
in the kitchen 
under candle light after midnight 
during a power outage 
in late November in 1973. 

She is not 
the daughter of one of the senior partners of Davis and Company downtown, 
the daughter who as a teenager will attend Crofton House, 
row with a group of Heathers from the RVYC 
and develop the shoulders and upper body strength 
that will thrill several members of the St. George’s Senior Boys Basketball team, 
only to be dumped like a handjob working girl 
because she won’t fulfill their communal carnal desires. 

She is not a small child with gifts: 
coy, 
precocious, 
and seeking the fleeting moments 
when she can flee uncertainty 
and the idiosyncratic 
that undermine childhood peace and stability. 

She is [merely?] staring longingly 
at the tricycle suspended from the ceiling beams, 
contemplating the risk of leaping 
into the third dimension, 
plucking it down 
and riding away 
and down the sidewalk, 
looking for a swing set
—any swing set. 

She is also longing for the black feather wings, 
to rip down, 
strap to her back 
and leap off the roof 
towards the street 
only to be caught up in the wake of a bus with rabbit ears, 
a wake that will sail her over towards Nat Bailey Stadium 
where she can swoop down over the outfield, 
pass a fly ball sailing over the left field wall, 
then ride the summer sunset updrafts up Queen Elizabeth mountain, 
over to the quarry garden and west 
to race the sunset around the planet 
until time glides her down 
into Shangri-La’s playground sandbox 
of eternal childhood, bliss and innocence. 

But today: 
today she is trapped in red on the wall, 
watching all of us 
NOT watching her.

Copyright 2002, Stephen Buckley
06.23.02, 07.24.02