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