by Amy Soricelli
Josie's building has steel windows. Nails grounded fist into corners
keeping out sunlight, slips of fresh air.
Breezing by birds carry South Bronx dust fluttering through the wings/deep
down they soar... puffing up hard on concrete.
No one lives next door - boarded up with slabs of cedar wood smelling like
campsites in the rain -notice of non-payment taped to the door like a Christmas wreath.
High and dry that family of six - off in the night/ backwards-
fast-flying on wobbly tires.
Josie hears sounds next door on late nights - her small brothers bouncing off
the sofa/high on sugar drinks and plastic toys with missing pieces.
She hears laughter - random bangs that shake the plaster off the high-ceilinged walls -
she smells deep foods, rich, spicy -their colors slip under the door
and the cracks in her roof tapping lightly.
No one lives there - sealed, shut-tight.
Josie thinks there - moved in .....
are the ghosts of everything good.
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