The View

The granite is cold under the stack

of bills I haven’t opened yet.

I wanted the height, the floor-to-ceiling glass,

the skyline’s jagged silhouette.

But at 2 AM, the city is just

fluorescent grids where people wait

for the same train I used to take,

back when I could afford to be late.

I asked for the world and I got it.

Twenty-six stories of air.

I’m standing in the kitchen I prayed for,

pulling the gray from my hair.