#63--Sally in Our Alley

Poor Mona Lisa lives at an angle now, bent out of shape by the impress of too much close inspection.  Her backboard mountains, once bristling and haunted, have been melting like old molars.  She holds a flayed bird.  She is in rather straightened circumstances now.  She lives in our alley, in that flat on the second floor, where the damp curtains move in the lusterless breeze.