Two Feet Left

The world seen from two feet left. What she can see from here. On the roof. With the laundry, the salt thrown birds. Confused again. She bends her neck, exposes nape to cold water sky. School children run home with seagull cries. She sees past the rust rooftops.

In the alley, a dog wanders. Scrawny. Sits. Pants in the puddles and torn bits of sky. Clouds pass sleepless.

Down by the dock, two boys. One touches the railroad tracks. “Stand closer if you want time to stop,” he tells the other boy. Will he? Seven stories up she wonders how one thing leads to another. Whether she made all of this up. Well, all but the part about the dog. And the confused laundry. It’s still there. Will always be there.

The boys are gone. Just her now. And his words scattered across the rooftops. How he asked, at the hotel room door, “What's the good in something that can't happen again?” No, we are the shortest way down, she thinks. How it must be.