from some eleventh floor he waves
pulls his crane to roll and rise
hands that shift a
well known road beside me -
one i've walked on
kissed on
grew a blister
and spit on -
swings an orange flag to guide me.
from eleven floors
it could be you under that hat -
one hidden freckle
the shape of your smile
warm soft hands -
driving
the wrecking ball.
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