by Allison Thorpe

I am trying on the city—
Jimmy Choos I pray will stretch—

pretending this high rise balcony
is my 20 acres, my forsaken moon.   

Nasturtium and beans meander metal railings.
Tomatoes blush at this new concrete language.

At least the bugs do not know
I have moved.

I am still too backward
for this urban enthusiasm:

a goat afraid to get too close to the barbeque
in case it might be next on the menu.

The air here has such clear-cut purpose:
carting noise for minimum wage,  

hauling smoky industrial drama,
recycling the feral dreams of dogs.

Even common pigeons outside my window
fit the roof edges like fancy suede gloves.

I wonder if I squint just right
the green tiles will turn into a pine tree,

the fluttered pigeon wings transformed
into familiar turkeys roosting twilight,

the peck of pigeons at gravel,
robins hunting worms after rain.

Maybe if the birds squint at me,
they will mistake my sad mingle for ease,

view my chipped cup of blackberry wine
as a fine stemmed goblet of Bordeaux,

my artless aura ravishing  
as opening night diamonds.
—

Allison Thorpe’s latest book is Reckless Pilgrims (Broadstone Books). She has published in such journals as Pleiades, So To Speak, Appalachian Review, Hamilton Stone Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, and Roanoke Review. She lives in Lexington, KY, and would love to be a smoke signal aficionado.