Sometimes in the evening,
I’ll stand by a window, cracked wide.
Don’t get the wrong bucolic
impression –
it relents only an arm’s width,
barely enough for my hand
to poke beyond and sift through
the wind. The city exerting itself
many stories high.

There’s a breeze, maybe.
Wispy bits of tomorrow on the way.
Other times the hum
of ever present machinery.
A steel ribcage, taking a breath.

Tonight though, it’s the smell I notice.
Of smoke. No, smokiness.
Charcoal and tongs and
butter brushed with anticipation.
Nobody grills for one, though.
There will be chairs, multiple,
at this gathering, lined up
then made haphazard.
Evidence of a meal consumed.

I step back from the window,
in silence. Sirens fade.
Solitude made audible.
I wouldn’t be here, otherwise, gazing into
this open sliver of night.