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.
smothered in smooth-looped luxury
designed to absorb.
volition lost amongst the numb folds
of a Turkish export.
slip out into the drip-drop rain
of a soft-soaped sky.
Stride, naked, hoopy frood-like,
across the scarred lawn
for that line-dried scratchy rag
its abrasion welcome
if only to feel something
to slough off
and watch it blow away.
She could have made her escape
when he stopped at the lights;
reached for the chrome handle
when he saw red. Instead,
she unfastened her belt,
quietly sat back, closed her eyes,
nails digging into trembling thighs
and waited for the moment
when he hit the brakes.