The View From Somewhere Else

My hand, it cramped on the sill,

knuckles white, wood splinters

like tiny needles working in.

That old kitchen window, stuck again.

A grunt, a heave. It gave

a little, then caught.

And suddenly it wasn't here,

the smell of old cooking oil,

but grandmother’s place, the alley

where the cats fought.

The same rough give, the paint

chipped just so.

Outside, the glass blurred with condensation,

a map of breath, like someone

had been pressing their face there,

trying to see past the grimy

film, to something beyond

the brick wall, the fire escape.

Just shapes, though. Never a clear picture.