On quieter days, I catch
myself laying on
the beige rooftop cushioned
sofa, legs crossed, toes
delving under the armrest
for more warmth, lips taking
big swigs of rosemary tea.
Brown leaves make
mesmerizing landscapes.
The street
in front of my eyes, barely lit
with orange lamplight
that wobbles with doubt, yet
ambiguously
floodlights the corners of
garbage bags
and fishbones, and
I think to myself that I had a good life.
I know I loved this city once.
