You are six or seven
small enough to fit into a cardboard
box. The rooftop is an expanse
of concrete, empty except for the
box against the parapet, set on its
side wherein you sit, huddled. You
in your red winter coat with the
fake sheep fur on the inside –
your brother has one just like it – and
your boy’s bowl cut. You look
out on the blank concrete, you can’t even
see over the edge. The wind blows cold
but there’s nothing to blow there save
the flaps on the box. You hug yourself
and imagine you are poor.
All you have in the world: the box,
the concrete, the cold wind.
What nectarous pity you feel
for the you who are poor, this
feeling you squeeze from your imagination –
you know both pain and pleasure. Is life and
intimation of life.