The Lean

The wrecking ball hangs like a heavy, dark fruit

over the lot where the money takes root.

I spent forty minutes of every day there,

pressed to the brick in the humid July air.

The surface was pitted, a language of grit,

where the oil from the rollers had managed to sit.

It left a white ghost on the back of my blue,

a chalky reminder of what I went through.

The lofts will have glass from the floor to the sky,

clear as a lie and just as high.

They’ll scrub off the stains where I rested my spine,

to make room for the people who drink better wine.