We’re breaking into your apartmentthrough your bedroom window.
The maintenance guy’s ladderis propped against the sill.
I climb the ladder rung by rung,it shivers, I try not to look down.
A face appears in the glass.What are you doing, the face says.
I’m looking for my dad’s, I say.I thought this was his window.
Aren’t you Ken’s boy, he says.No, I say. Chris’s. Oh Chris, he says,
he’s dead. I know, I say. I thoughtyou could be Ken’s, he says.
Sorry, I say. Believe me,the face says. Not my first rodeo.
I climb down. We haul the ladderto the next window and try again.
*
It surprises me how littleI recognize what’s here. How long
has it been for you, Noah says.Almost ten years, I guess.
Four for me, he says, stacking papersin a ShopRite bag. You think mom
wants any of this,…
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The American Poetry Review (Digital) - 1 Issue, May/June 2023