Crimmins Avenue
She walks six floors up, resting between
To use rooftop clothes lines always unseen
Hammocking deeply from wind blowing mean
Wooden clothespins hug the slack lines
Standing attention, the ancient, pinch kind
If fumbled, free-falling, hurling through time
Bring down clothes frozen, gleaming with snow
Gloves stiff with iced fingers now moving slow
Breathe chimney fumes that warm from below
Women cleaning clothes to make a living
Dreams set aside without misgiving
Harsh life in the Bronx, unforgiving
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