Poetry

Thirteenth Story

a poem

Photo by on

The village began with coffee
cans, the bottles moved in
later. Soon enough the
bathroom sink grew a city
round its basin. There were bottlenecks
spotted on the distant shelves
of bookcases. A window’s sill
became a suburb metro area.
The phone is a stubborn holdout.
The way a god doesn’t look below,
the way she never calls,
the rising smell of alcohol,
ubiquitous, a residue in every
tower. Yet, it isn’t her absence,
this [in]eluctable depletion
of soul, but something that was
the cause, all in all, and
seeking restitution under the
thirteenth story window are
the city’s birds, sparrows finely
sifting. Another ground-ward
wheels, falls, a living leaf,
until at the very last catches
in the wind ascending.