My grand journey would begin with
a swan dive. And over that edge, I would fly on. Such a journey it’d be, if we
could fly, and I know where my spread arms will steer me. The rooftops from
below I can see a world that shouldn’t be there. I may not have wings.
But I have a view from the 32nd
floor.
At my feet flowers look blurred,
blue velvet and metallic mist dripping onto matte red that sways with the air
around. Pollen like pixie dust lifts off. It tickles the nose of the man seated
on bench like stiff kajal.
Flowers grow like children atop a
roof. The lost boys of a youth we have moved years beyond. In this afternoon light they sleep with eyes
open, and the approaching evening marks their dance with closed faces under
unstrung lights in the ceiling beyond the fog.
Anyone is a lost child here. There’s
nothing wrong with falling over the edge, surrounded in splendor.
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