Over the Edge, Four Flights Up
`
I opened the rusted iron gateway
bound in chain and wire, to find a landing
caked in muddied footprints, scattered about like roaches
Magpie shadows course the rain soaked streets
and puddle patterns reflect temptation as light flickers
from second floor moan filled parlors, painted nails scratching
Navigating the fog entrenched alley, garbage bins fallen
create a maze of skinned shins and bloodied lips
when I come to an arched opening, only hinges remain
The staircase up is dark, creaking under my weight
I count the holes collected in plaster walls yawning,
prior frustrations showing no mercy
The stench of tar and factory waste wallows,
catching me stumbling through the opening to the roof,
gasping in the ever thinning air
Dark clouds retaliate for earlier lost days
when stale bread pudding was a treat
served to those of less fortunate standing
What life is this to lead anyway, empty pockets
and hand me down promises, watching shadows below
taking chances and knocking up opportunities
Red door, black door, be careful which you choose,
for one color leads to the lower city,
the underground where opium flows like crazed sewage
The other holds within sexual fantasies
and red lipstick smudges,
but beware when jiggling those tarnished handles
with your best foolish grin,
the cost is what you can't afford to lose
Swine roam the busy square freely,
splurging on last night’s tossed garbage,
grunting approval in an off key symphony
of stringless digestion, slobbering regurgitation
beyond the blinded eyes of the others
lost indefinitely within themselves
Street lamps spit hot oil through fractured glass
dripping onto the formal evening wear
and diamond brooches worn by the elite,
making their way to the opera house where marble steps
are lined with evergreen topiaries
losing needles to the addicts of the night
A carriage passes, glazed eyes peer from lace curtains,
hidden hands roam freely the velvet seats and occupants,
as painted wheels follow ruts in the worn cobblestone
Smoke spews from stained brick chimneys and cracking mortar
discoloring the moon and choking stars
with a filth to be reckoned with
I sit on this rooftop alone, looking down,
scarred legs dangling over the edge four flights up,
wondering if anyone would care if I jumped
When startled by a noise behind me, footsteps perhaps
I turn to see the beautiful silhouette of a woman, flowing hair,
hand extended, "I would," she whispers...
Copyright © Chris Green | Year Posted 2019
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