15 West

key smoothly turns,
the hand pours weight on to the mansion door
wearing cruel paint over precise filigree,

up the shaking tenementified stairs,
a squeak from the third balustrade,
the meek bark from the landlady's Maltese,
vinyl opera from rent controlled $480 a month apartment two,
a light feminine cough from three,

up another flight, barely past four,
the scientologist, a bark, a wild secret cluck,
allegedly from an ordinary parrot?,
it’s moving— the door jerks open against a chain,
an eye peeps out,
rushing rush,
no interrogation today!
blazing five, today the typical blaring notes of Toots Hibbert 
have fermented into silent hangover,

skipping the loose linoleum tread,
past elegant six,
with the glorious dazzle gasolier, the fine moldings—
perhaps can it be negotiated to $2500? vacant another month
breathing, finally past seven,
the door slightly ajar for no worthy reason,
a strange musty green glow,

finally, the sixth landing,
the balustrade creaking with indignity,
the lined light from the caged skylight slaps
closed with the stern authority of the
metal swing twang firedoor,
here, apartment 10½,
the key jams into upside-down deadbolt lock,
left, left, right,
a little tweak,
a better angle,
weight shift,
push, crack, jam,
finally turning,
opening into darkness,
a slight beam of light,
the long distance traveler from the sun
finally bounces off dark stone,
squeezing around the curtain to join me here,
weakly filling the small room,
revealing slapdash paint coating fine molding,
a 1962 abstraction rescued from the street
unsorted mail, torn furniture,
underappreciated, rented, capitalized,
yielding monthly value with
no pretense of the former gilded elegance,
the lamp turns, click, snaps on,
revealing more, light thrown at 120 Hertz
by the force of Queens power grid coal combustion,
wavelengths tangle with the stained yellow shade,
the door, closed,
locks against the dark threat of intrusion,
heavy breath,
a slight lightness from the climb,
sitting down now, thinking,
tapping electronic thoughts,
blocking out now the extraneous-- the siren, the wind-- 
the mind, focusing, advancing, striking,
engaging more pressing matters than ambient thoughts

the long distance traveler from the sun
finally bounces off dark stone,
squeezing around the curtain to join me here,
weakly filling the small room,
revealing slapdash paint coating fine molding,
underappreciated, rented, capitalized,
yielding regular paper transactions of some value with
no pretense of the former gilded elegance,
the lamp turns, click, snaps on,
revealing more, light thrown at 120 Hertz by
the force of Queens power grid coal combustion,
wavelengths tangle with the stained yellow shade,
is that, yes—a tear?
a thought about perhaps reuniting the unframed rescued
1962 abstraction with the street—
the door, closed, locks against
the dark threat of intrusion, heavy breath,
a slight lightness from the climb,
sitting down now, thinking,
tapping electronic thoughts,
don’t hear the siren, the honk, the wind,
the mind, focusing, advancing, striking,
engaging more pressing matters than ambient thoughts