Apartment Crossings

The man in the brown tweed coat

nods to the jogger in green leggings,

she nods back, adjusts her ponytail,

bounces on the balls of her feet

then waves to the old lady from 109

who has the three-legged cat;

the old lady says, the sun’s out,

turns to the mechanic with half-moons

of grease around each of his nails,

and repeats, the sun’s out.

The mechanic grins, says he can sleep

rain or shine— steps into the elevator,

where Mr. Brisket (not his real name;

he just cooks a lot of brisket)

is tapping a newspaper against his palm.

They ride to the fifth floor and are met

by the eight-year-old twins from 507 

just as the doors open. They high-five Brisket 

and ask for peppermints, which he doles out

of the pockets of his red-paisley robe.

Katarina strides down the hallway

in cargo pants and combat boots,

stopping only to give the group a salute.

No one knows if she’s actually military,

but her cropped hair and impossibly straight

posture leaves people to wonder. 

She exits the building; Mrs. Allbright,

coming back from the beauty parlor

with freshly-coiffed blue hair

tells her there’s a chance of rain,

late afternoon.