Rust and Air

The radiator’s screaming like a kettle left on

so I pushed up the sash and climbed through the frame.

The iron slats are a ladder to nowhere,

a zigzag of shadow without any name.

I sat on the edge with a cigarette lit

and watched the trash bags huddle in the rain.

Black flakes of paint came off in my palms

like scabs from a wound or the soot from a train.

Below me, the alley is breathing out grease

while the city hums on in a billion rooms.

I’m just a body suspended in air,

waiting for the heat to run out of its fumes.