In the room,
above the park,
there is a view for miles and miles.
Some see children at play
interacting and building social skills.
I see a car wreck
two blocks down.

I'm watching lines on films.
I'm looking at cracked window sills.
I'm seeing hairs pinned to canvas by hastily laid down brush strokes.

In the room,
above the park,
there are signatures,
both carved out and left in sharpie,
penned by decades of children sluffing school.
Some see memories,
I see misspelled words.
And someone comments on the irony,
I correct them;
"It's a logical consequence to not being in English class."
They laugh.
?

I'm watching lines on films.
I'm looking at cracked window sills.
I'm seeing a man succumb to vices that he's controlled for years.

In the room,
above the park,
I stand face to face
with the girl who was first
to feel my naked chest pressed against her own.
She's screaming and crying
and walking in nonsensical patterns
telling me It's over.
Passersby see tragedy,
I see how red her lips get
when her body can't contain all that she hopes to express.

I'm watching lines on films.
I'm looking at cracked window sills
I'm seeing the subtleties that separate experience from routine

I'm watching lines on films.
I'm looking at cracked window sills
In the room above the park
I'm seeing.

11/17/2007

Posted on 11/18/2007
Copyright © 2010 Nickolas Crosby