Lives I watch
from this twenty-second story
are yoga mats on adjacent rooftops,
sprawled, sweat-drenched and pollen-dusted
8 AM Thursday flow
to a playlist of Brooklyn traffic—
her body elastic, a figurine from where I peer,
stretching into a workday morning
From this twenty-second story,
to catch trains to downtown
or friends a block down
or rush for the rushing,
this New York thrill,
these high-gear streets.
Bodies and buses
rev to match a city’s pace—
kinetic energy from underground trains
quake the pavement,
spur the wheels of a city bike
into forward motion.
I feel it in my toes, from this twenty-second story.
Watching lives in the way
morning dew glistens on concrete,
and lives in terrace gardens, plastic grass,
lives in bulldozers,
lives in upward dogs and dogs on leashes,
panting in pace
with their master’s jogs,
lives in the buildings at eye-level
clandestine behind fog.
A girl on the twenty-something floor
peers out of her bedroom window,
imagining through the clouds,
thinking of me.