Not an Emergency

Three weeks in the sublet.

Every night I climbed out the window

onto the fire escape.

Not to smoke. Not to call anyone.

Just to be outside in a way

that required a small choice.

The alley below: a dumpster,

an AC unit dripping into a coffee can,

the sound of it irregular enough to listen to.

The rail had the paint worn off at the grip points.

Just metal there, cold even in August,

smooth from years of hands.

The last night I stayed out past midnight,

thinking about that—

all the actual emergencies those stairs have held.

People moving down fast, barefoot,

in the middle of something real.

And all the other times:

someone on a phone,

someone too hot to sleep,

someone sitting on the top landing

for no reason that would hold up

if you asked them.

The can was almost full.

I watched the next drop fall.

Thought: I should go in and pack.

Stayed.

Watched another drop.