She thought it would be easy; barefoot
on the ledge, ivory chiffon flapping
around her legs as a warm breeze carried
Puccini’s Tosca from the park.
She imagined herself: face upturned to the
blinking coverlet, arms outstretched
as if to embrace the electric eyes
of the city below, and then simply leaning,
trusting gravity and a soft landing
in his waiting lap. But she remains here,
for now, anchored to granite, shackled
to the cracked chimney pots
and the wet slates of the old roof,
waiting patiently for the scent of new money
and the dry swing of the wrecking ball.