“Going up”, I smile
scooping her toddling legs onto my shoulders.
Her fingers grip
a week’s worth of whiskers.
As a grey March wind sweeps
yesterday’s transfers and ticket stubs
into the fault lines of an
unimportant West Loop sidewalk.
“Going up”, she smiles
as the elevator lifts us 103 stories.
Above dilated office windows
struggling for a glimpse of Manhattan.
Tangled in the netting
of a deep blue hammock
spiral jetties of sun-bleached curls
shade the eyes of a sleeping mermaid
in pink water wings.
The clock hangs over the kitchen door
interrupting every thought.
The refrigerator blocks the path
humming inappropriately loud.
The ice maker feeling left out
collapses onto the floor.
Two mismatched Crocs under the dishwasher
conspire.
mother has a hard time texting
i can see it
in her knuckles
she wants
someone else to handle these things
This morning I found
hidden
on the coarse carpeting of a fashionable hotel room’s floor
between the taxi horn’s bleats
between the police siren’s wails
between Broadway and 8th Avenue
between inhale and exhale
one still moment.