Fixed Position

The light turned red and I looked up

to the fourth floor where the brick is chipped.

I know that crack in the sidewalk below,

the one shaped like a map of a place I left.

New people have hung heavy, velvet drapes,

dark as a bruise to keep the morning out.

I used to lean there until the glass went warm,

leaving an oily ring where my head rested,

watching the taxis pool like yellow ink

at the corner of Willow and Main.

It’s strange how the view stays the same

while the person looking is someone else.