zoo girl

I called her zoo girl.

she lived across the street from
the screaming monkeys
and the roaring lions.

right over the zoo bar that played
Dixieland music
on Friday nights.

when I met her she slept on a futon
in the back room.

and a had a television
that dated back to the late sixties,
rabbit ears and all.

it was an old building.
the halls and stairwells smelled
of cabbage
and chicken.

soups and stews boiling over.

her radiator would talk all night.
grunt and groan,
and whisper at times
in a gravelly sigh,
as if it was having nightmares
and working things
out
on its own.

there was a coffee shop down the street
on Connecticut
and a yogurt shop,
right next door
to a liquor store.

we'd take long walks up
the street to Cleveland park,
bundled in our coats and each other

in the winter wind.