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.




I love this. Poetry for these days.
Favorite lines:
"A squirrel on a telephone wire watches a cat.
A six-year-old at a window watches them both."