recent observations, may.

neighbors and rooftops in may.

There’s a man on a roof I can see from my window scraping paint from a dresser I never saw him hoist skyward.

By afternoon, it’s bare: honeyed wood on a silver platter.

I ride a bike over potholed streets to pierce an awl through paper;

to bind a book,

to meet a friend.

The clouds at sunset appear lit from below with neon purple lights

I expect to wink and change color

GIRLS/ GIRLS/ GIRLS

On the hottest day, teenagers in mismatched bikinis struggle to subdue dancing beach towels.

I want to hand them warm smooth stones,

a plate of cold watermelon,

ballast.

They take shelter behind the bulkhead, send their squeals over the rooftops.

A squirrel on a telephone wire watches a cat.

A six-year-old at a window watches them both.

Three buildings down, a silver-haired man climbs out of a roof hatch and stands too close to the edge.

He surveils his urban kingdom, hands on hips, faded red t-shirt billowing in the breeze.

When disappears back down the hatch I realize I haven’t been breathing.

Maybe all he needed was the wind in his face.

Maybe it’s what I need, too.