I lived inside the receiver of the last payphone in the city,
and sometimes at night someone would pick me up
and cradle me to their mouth as they whispered urgent
news to someone dear to them. Or they wept. Or threatened.
I don’t remember now. I know I wanted somewhere spacious,
so I moved into the top floor of the high-rise abandoned
before it could be finished. I ate pigeon eggs and let the wind
blow through me. I think they tore it down one day—
it’s just a crater now, and sometimes when I walk by, I spit
in the hole. When I tire of walking, I take off my boot
and sleep inside it. All of my children used to fit in its toe.
Now they’re gone, and I can stretch out until my bones
crack. The light hurts my eyes. You won’t remember this,
but the light used to be different, thinner. That was many
years ago. Now, I wear dark glasses everywhere.
No one talks to me on the street, and I like it that way.
I have a safe place, in the sign above a grocery store.
I live there sometimes. I drink tea I brew myself
and stay up late. I have to wait to leave until
the manager has locked up. She always smokes three
cigarettes in the parking lot before getting into her car,
but she doesn’t drive home right away. She turns on
the radio and sings to herself, loud enough I can just hear
from behind the giant glowing W where I’ve put my bed.
She never sings the same song twice. I admire that.