The Iron Ladder

The iron slats are a cold, serrated bite

through the wool of my socks. I lean out

where the air is sharp and tastes of soot.

The streetlamp below is a dim, yellow eye

watching the wrappers tumble in the wind.

I am three stories up and still not high enough.

The zigzag shadow of the stairs is thrown

against the brick in sharp, black diamonds.

It’s a cage I can step through if I want.

I smoke until the cherry burns my thumb,

watching the ash fall into the dark

like a thought I didn’t have the breath to finish.