Window boxes

Window boxes, i pass, walking calves stretch passing stoops when the rain asks

but never comes. The ladder to the roof is as steep as panic

one foot falling in front of the other where we wonder and blow smoke toward the shells of city

we are pushed fast and I'm eating a donut waiting for the train at 8am after crawling from the spider web of her bed- I've been poison bitten, and slowly even, by the easy steps from byob to devils den. The afternoon beer soaks in as John Cusack on mute is looking concerned in a motel on tv, the bartender is mouthing 'no dont go yet' but we say yes, there are more window boxes that we must glance past to get where we must go yet.