vertigo

this is what I imagine living in new york feels like.

Seven stories up
     I live in a room
             of hand me down clothes
             of beige walls 
     covered by borrowed posters
Empty spaces
     filled by knick knacks-
	growing older
	collecting dust-
     made by hands 
not mine to own.

Seven stories up
     I see the clamor of cars
             people walking in place
             bikes rolling nowhere.
     I sit on my porch.
Light a cigarette
     it flickers out quick,
             like I missed the prelude
             when I sought a slow burn.
     I scald the tips of my hands;
all too romanticized.

Seven stories up
     I glance at the sky
             my distance to the blue
             impresses closeness.
     Metal grates dig in my back.
six vacant floors away,
     past a locked door
             I don't know how to undo–
             but why would I?
     In my home, I can walk
for an icepack, or another pack.

Seven stories up
     Everything passes slowly.
             Cold water drips,
             infecting my skin,
     turning to icicles 
melting concurrent 
     to a circular burn 
             forming on my fingers
             and the palms center    
     read me like; tell me
what comes next.

Seven stories up
     Unknowing of above
             or really, below.
             All that exists is horizontal
     when I lie on my back,
and look to my side.
     It keeps me at ease;
             abstain from vertigo
             aided by the wind
     who carried a letter 
 in the palm of western hands.

Seven stories up
     My hand lingers
	on the folds of this note
	addressed not to me,
     but the owner of my clothes
asking for them back.
     Water droplets fall
	onto the sender
	onto the taker.
     Vast blue is all I have
aside from the inflictions

Of a cigarette
     or the wind.
Of metal grates
     or ice.

Of vertigo
     on my mind.