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trinket. She called me crazy. Oh, God, strike her dead, I thought.
Wanted a child so desperately-something to show off. Called me

a fool for pestering her with questions and writing that crazy poetry.
"Why do you want to build a block house in the middle of the

night? Why don't you wait till morning?"

"You're here. This house is yours. Ain't no fun building houses
for yourself."

"Do you know what time it is?"

"Oh, there's plenty of time. Houses take time to build."
The young man rose and walked to the window. Outside a blood-
orange sunrise smeared the horizon; the dark shadows of the build-
ings against the sky appeared to be lonely monuments; accidents of
life, the poet thought. Like me. Isn't it funny the world is most
lovely when lonely and dark.

Helen had been lonely, too. She struggled to be someone, but how
could she be someone and not know where's she going or what the
world's spinning on, I taunted. "You're just running into your blithe
social world to hide," I'd reply. "It's only a bubble. It's only a bubble.
It'll burst," I'd shout. "Everyday the Sun comes up and you don't
know why. You don't even care."

"For God's sake, leave me alone," she'd shout.
The poet sighed and thought to himself, "I guess I have but I'm
still as lonely and lost." He yawned and looked down to see the street _
lights twitch out. "Always running, you're always running away. You
know you'll never have life's little mysteries unveiled to you. Why
should they be?"

Something brushed against his back and he turned quickly.
"This is Annie, Mister Poet. She's my baby. If you like Annie,
she can be yours too, and we'll put her in your house."
"Sure, kid. Let's put Annie in the house," the poet replied oblig-
ingly.

"No, not now. Tomorrow we'll put her in the house. I want
her now."

"Why did you build that house?"

"I build them for a lot of people. I built a house for Joey last
night. Only he got drunk and kicked it over. Erasamus wanted Annie
to be put in his house too."

"You mean you do this every night."
"Almost," she replied softly. "Isn't Annie pretty?"
She leaned sleepily up against her poet. Cuddling both the doll
and her, he lifted the Woman gently up in his arms and carried her

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