First, Sally

Came as her madness,
but didn’t fess up.
She stepped sideways,
gathered a skyline—in it
a flotsam of western
larks, bric-a-brac, a sun
badly rendered against a barn.
She sat, a hat on her knee,
asking for a something good
to say. Words like crochet
and croquet made her feel
coquettish, then awfully.
Please, she said, a song to edge this.
Came then her chorus.