Iron Steps

My new window frames the rusted web

of iron, a brittle spine

against the brick.

It leads nowhere, really,

just down to nothing.

A pigeon, fat and gray,

shuffled along its unused steps,

past a clay pot

where a fern, long dead,

had left its brittle husk.

I watched its dull wings beat

a slow goodbye to the ledge,

and thought about things

that have nowhere left to fly.