Alphabet City
Twelve stories up-I hate heights-
but I hate lows more
so I follow her
up twelve flights of pain and
piss soaked stairs
that spiral downward
like
me.
High above Avenue A
in her apartment in the sky
I try not to stare at the
horror hung on the walls
are they dead or alive?
Black and
bloody-blue police photos
women–battered and bruised–
she said they were her sisters
but I couldn’t look
preferring instead to slump back
feet up
buzz-killed and spent
in a leftover chair
from her dead neighbor on eleven.
I studied the glow of her cigarette
high above Alphabet City
me, crumpled in the chair of a dead man
wondering why she would dance
wordless and stiff
in a room soaked with pain.
© 2007 AgSynclair/MjD
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on Saturday, May 2nd, 2009 at 6:45 pm and is filed under AgSynclair, Po'try.
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