Frost across her windowpane, Mr. Crane
Looks up at the warm lamplight, a blight
Against the brick wall, nothing to recall,
Nothing at all within the window frame.
Nothing to say to no one, as you see,
Except Mr. Crane looks up, slightly tight,
Rye whiskey in a ass-pocket, to crawl
Yearning up the staircase, up to her door.
Rest assured, Rae hears Mr. Crane dimly
Attempt to ascend the drunken staircase,
Ever ready at the chance to flee, she
Flings open the window to dive two floors,
Light as a wavelength, an acrobat's grace,
Yet still she falls, shrieking like a banshee.
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