Tenement Windows

Dark, tenement windows
shade the inner underworld
from its already back-shuddering
soot covered, black spots
hover over the child’s head
as he attempts to reconfigure
the dusty red block
his mother calls,
screams, reverberating
against thin, cracked walls
and old, peeling paint
we’ve heard it all down
this street before
there’s nothing more
for you to take
or give
as Sunday morning rises
and no one can rest
scrapping pennies for
the day’s bread ahead
or lack thereof
wishing endlessly
elbows poised,
eyes simultaneously aghast
and convinced
looking up into the
cruel and
the only miraculous ballerina
moment on this same
tenement windowsill
as the sun already dips
before it


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