Steel Laces

Up high, where the brick

meets the sky,

a child sits,

cross-legged on a rusted rung.

Just watching.

The paint, peeling like old skin,

curls away from the iron,

a pigeon, grey and fat,

perches on a lower bar,

unconcerned.

It’s an exit, not a way in.

A climb down,

a metal ladder to nothing

but the street below.

No flowers there, just grit.

The air tastes of exhaust and rain.

I imagine the small, silent shift

of the child’s weight,

the groaning metal sigh,

waiting for a reason to descend.