Wet flakes of snow are illuminated
by street lamps
beyond the living room curtains.
I step onto the fire escape—
rusted wrought iron
bolted to the red brick facade
overlooking the rigid shadows
of Hell’s Kitchen.
Standing on the small platform,
I listen as tires splash through slush
in front of this 1950s-era loft building
and wait.
Brush strokes of window light
from neighboring buildings
paint the asphalt below.
I see the outline of
you: head down, short strides
hitting the pavement on 46th Street,
a wall of tagger graffiti behind you—
on your way home from work.
Your Western-style Vail hat flutters
in the breeze,
black Doc Martens leaving a trail
in the wet snow,
long brunette hair tucked into
the collar of your red parka.
My femme fatale, Jess—
with rosy nude lipstick
and bronze skin—
crosses into the side street
and stands under a halo of light,
a Broadway star whose cigarette smoke
is swallowed by the mist.
Smiling down from my iron perch,
I blow a kiss.
“It’s no fun using the front door,”
you yell.
Hurrying down the fire escape, I lower
the ladder.
Your hand finds mine until you’re above me
and I’m following those plié curves
on iron steps
back to the third floor—
my head lost
in this Degas painting.
The tip of your cigarette glows—
your eyes panther-like as you inhale.
An intrusion cuts through the darkness
of the bedroom:
banded glare of streetlights
slice through the Venetian blinds,
blunting your cashmere-sweater softness.
I pull the lift cord.
The blinds drop and close.
I extinguish your cigarette,
throw your hat onto the wing chair.
We dance to Johnny Mathis and “Chances Are.”
You whisper the last line across
my shoulder:
“The chances are your chances are
awfully good.”
