third floor walk up
let’s take up a collection
and have a lift put in
says one neighbor
as we pass on the stairs
he going out for a smoke
me pretending my knees
are not cursing
all those years genuflecting
and kneeling in church.
down the long hall
inside my flat i slip off my knapsack
brew a pot of tea
paying homage to the builders
in our family line,
share toast
with the birds that come
to the balcony.
i look out across the courtyard
at another balcony
where a woman tends
a garden in buckets.
i know she is probably
judging my scraggly array of plants
but we wave and smile.
let her judge, i think
one night my birds will teach me
their secret
and i will stand on the balustrade
and fly.
Emily Hart has worked on both sides of the gate — as an award winning writer under various pens and as writing tutor and editor. She revels in a riotously monastic life.