My ‘baby,’ as I call her, my ‘baby’ lies fixed, a tiled floor. That’s what I see when I find her. Do they always move the same, these crowds? But I haven’t worked it out. So I start again, from a pattern I still don’t know.

And so again, today is Saturday in Tuscaloosa, people scream, kids wear jerseys, crowds move, red and white formations. Walking to her rescue, I split them, families, couples, vendors. And again, within these crowds, she calls, asking for a solution.

Again I push them, bumping, they block me. I work a maze, smelling hot dogs and barbeque. The crowds cheer, and I’m broken up on cough syrup, my knees are my feet, walking on stilts, crunching leaves, bed sheets, quilts. I move faster, working the crowds, with tricks of my hands, puzzles, pieces, a smile, flashing eyes, making progress. The toilet she holds is a spottled mess, a robin’s egg.

Again, I’ve made it to a well-shaped brick house.

Inside, I touch her, a body of freckles, a tiled floor.

But I cannot solve the pattern, so I start again, looking for answers.

My ‘baby’ lies fixed, a tiled floor.