ON A ROOFTOP IN THE CITY

ON A ROOFTOP IN THE CITY

On a rooftop in the city,
Sun is setting purple-pink and pretty.
Although I know there's little use,
I make a sad, uneasy truce,
With what went on on the second floor.
With life and what has gone before.

On a rooftop, I see stars,
The neon light from bars,
I could drink it all away,
But I think right here I'll stay,
Pondering the fifth floor blues,
Searching for what I can safely keep,
To salvage from the refuse.

It's a noose that I could safely choose,
Just hang like a gangster from some nearby tree,
It's not exactly PTSD, but it's not exactly easy,
To surrender the glories of the past,
To find some sweetness that can last,
In the troubled warmth of this rooftop encasement,
I ponder what went on in the basement.

On a rooftop in the metropolis,
The sky it rivals amethyst,
Suddenly I feel so damn small,
That I could easily chuck it all,
Remembering the seventh floor,
The man who lived there is no more,
With his house of snarling dogs,
And his one potbellied pig,
Who used to dance for me a jig,
When I'd walk triumphant through the door.

I can scarce remember the day of my birth,
Or my reckless sojourn on this earth,
It seems my mental filter
Has veered a bit off kilter
I strain to hear the one way traffic,
Of the bats that fly up in my attic.

It's enough to make me cry,
To lose my foothold and fall from the sky.
I'll sit on this rooftop and wait 'til I die,
Pondering now and maybe later,
What went on in the elevator.

-Bruce Potts
Copyright 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED