A door seldom opens in the late Tuesday clouds
Up here in the tower.
None of us have wings, for all our celestial perceptions.
I want to fall backwards out of this life
into the city.
I have a white bag filled with tissue paper.
I don’t mind leaving nothing behind.
Take me to the silver doors,
with one last look at my reflection,
I will escape clueless
into the alley,
befriended by a tortoiseshell cat.
I want to fall backward out of this life.
There is a place that I will make waiting.
The sidewalk will crumble behind me.
I will no longer be the legs ascending the opera stairs
ahead of you, no longer the complacent shoulder.
No longer the pieces you think
you put together.
I have earned this small violence.
Copyright Kay Winter