The Third Floor

The oven’s breathing out its heat,

I’m looking down toward the street.

I climb the sill to find some air,

and leave the grease and dishes there.

I reach for fire to light a smoke,

the plastic slips, the rhythm broke.

It hits the slats and tumbles down,

to join the garbage in the town.

My palms are black with peeling flakes,

the kind of mark a railing makes.

It sticks like tar against my skin,

a soot for every place I've been.