The Invisible Woman

The invisible woman is angry. 
Boy is she mad. 
She took her books to the library last night 
and last night she burned the library down. 
She hates all her stories and 
nobody else wants to read them 
either. They go like this: 
I don’t want to be here. 
There’s not any place in this world I want to be. 
Someone should tell her howling 
is the wrong thing to do at the moon, 
the moon’s just a flashy advertisement 
above the fire engines saying, 
STAY TUNED FOR TOMORROW’S EPISODE OF “THE SUNRISE”!
Still, the man in the moon, if there is one, 
had the very best view 
when the burning roof smashed flat 
all the shelves of burning books, 
the firemen gesturing with 
grim authority and their hoses 
to anyone wanting to gasp in amazement 
at the light and the noise, up close. 

No one thought about the invisible woman 
when the engines were called in; 
no one thought about her when the engines drove away.
She doesn’t know this. 
The invisible woman dreams of 
Death by Public Hanging 
until she realizes all clues linking her 
to the library fire are invisible too. 
She thinks of an old man crying, 
probably the man in the moon. 
The invisible woman is happy. 
The invisible woman’s relieved.