Cliff Dwelling

In a niche,
dust,
flowers
battered
by wind,
visited
only by
the bravest
of bees.

Everything
ages,
bakes
like brick.

Sun
through
metal
window
frames.
Dirty glass.
There are

children
squirreled
into nests
of softness,
park visits,
admonishments
not to touch
windowsills,
wiped daily
for lead.
This is not

poverty.
This is a
certain
vertical
choice,
lives
stacked
high.

At night,
a soft crumble
of concrete
in the walls,
a whisper
now and then.

Some lights
on;
some lights
off,

dreams,
thoughts
humming.

For Open Link Night at dVerse Poets.