I've watched the rise
from my eastward perch on the third floor
of this pile of bricks stacked in the 1890s.
Thousands of fools have climbed
the mountain a stone's throw away
as though doing so will bring them closer
to what they do not know.
Some even time their trite accomplishment.
I've laughed at them in my coffee mug
ignoring a slight hangover
cured by greasy eggs
and whatever form of pork I desire.
The largest of God's creations
that I've seen
ascends above those ambitious buffoons
so we can engage
in the staring contest of a lifetime.
Even through three massive windows
it can't scorch me or make me look away.
The aloes I've cultivated
on my kitchen windowsill
cheer for my victory
as that burning sphere
of hydrogen and helium
sulks far out of view.
I go about my day in peace
knowing that I've won
and earned the simple pleasures
like finishing my coffee on the couch
with a book by a dead man who got it.
Even when Manhattan Bohemians
bought the adjacent building
two years back
and added a third story
to try to block my view
I've prevailed.
The cuck of a husband paints
in his prison of an attic studio.
I wonder if my awkward form's inspired
this middle-aged stranger.
Through his one westward window
that wasn't on the blueprints
I'm sure he's seen me waltzing
in boxers and my cups
unflinching at what was meant to be
and the way it sometimes is.
The aloes sing louder on those days.
It's time to consider
leaving this sacred place
and its illuminated dust
floating through morning rays.
There are few things
that I'll miss more in this world
than my apartment
on a sunny Sunday morning.
One of them is you.
The aloes will understand.
