Alphabet City by AgSinclair

Twelve stories up-I hate heights-
but I hate lows more

so I follow her
up twelve flights of pain and

piss soaked stairs
that spiral downward

like
me.

High above Avenue A
in her apartment in the sky

I try not to stare at the
horror hung on the walls

are they dead or alive?

Black and
bloody-blue police photos

women–battered and bruised–
she said they were her sisters

but I couldn’t look
preferring instead to slump back

feet up
buzz-killed and spent

in a leftover chair
from her dead neighbor on eleven.

I studied the glow of her cigarette
high above Alphabet City

me, crumpled in the chair of a dead man
wondering why she would dance

wordless and stiff
in a room soaked with pain.

© 2009 AgSinclair/MjD

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