7 Floors Down
Dec 11 2008


The view from the 7th floor
is disconnected.
People’s heads
beetling about their business.
The roofs of cars,
the hushed choreography of traffic.
And apartment blocks
directly across
a windswept plaza,
with impenetrable glass walls.
And higher still
a glimpse of city sky.

I am invisible
here on my 7th story balcony,
because no one can be bothered to notice
the man, standing
in his grey concrete box.
It looked cool and fresh out there,
but now I feel breathless, hungry for air,
overcome by the smell
of stale ashtrays,
a damp bloom
of mould.

So it’s out to the narrow hallway
with its 20 watt pall,
suffuse with spilled beer and boiled cabbage . . .
down 7 floors . . .
past the white fluorescent light
still blinking, buzzing . . .
and out the front door.

A big car goes roaring by
as we briefly lock eyes,
and I feel I can finally stop.
It smells of wet snow and car exhaust,
breathing-in
deep greedy lungfuls.