There’s a guy–not much older than
me– who sits on a rocking chair
on his balcony; on the first floor
of building 5000 with a shriveled houseplant,
facing away from the trash piles and noisy bus stop,
instead towards the sickeningly similar slabs
of brick red and white concrete.
He smokes a cigarette or two (Marlboro Reds)
on select evenings and afternoons, keeping the pack
in a bright green plastic bag on the floor, the type that people
use to collect their dogs’ waste; hiding them
from me, because whenever I walk by,
he covers the glowing end and shoves the pack
into his pockets. Perhaps he feels shame, or
doesn’t want to get caught, but
I just want to go up to him and ask for a smoke
