Desolate cries of a child playing in a safe, barren hold,
muted by the blanket of years.
Waving shadows of laundry flapping wetly on cotton rope lines.
Scents of coriander and cumin, cilantro and pepper
weave through time as families move in, seed, and fade away.

Not even hundreds of children could buckle the concrete,
thin the bark, bow the trunk
of the sole occupant: that's time's joyful pastime.
It's my turn to perch on this fire escape,
thin strains of traffic sliding through cracks
between the buildings, a song whose rhythm I can't catch,
rust jabbing into my palms like indecision,
grit clinging to my skin,
the way black sorrow drips down the backs
of once proud brick buildings.

Wire encased pane pressing cold through my shirt,
fingers sliding into the imprint of countless palms
scorched into the ladder's iron by desperation:
am I alone, sitting here,
wondering if some day my hands, squeezing the rungs,
will slip,
and drop me, mute, into this pit,
or if escape means only
a barefoot run
up dusty stairs
to the tar-paper roof,
and launching myself into the sky?