Observations

seven stories of trust
with colorful murals guiding
the way up high
so high
without the drugs
smoke from my lungs
was not how I was made

sitting on the floor
wondering how it all led up to this
cold concrete
cold benches
I stand with my arms to my side
as the wind blows stronger
I look down below
through the rain
to all the people crawling
searching, smoking
conversing about race
and culture

up high I feel so
divine with the concrete
clouds and trees
signs and graffiti
stains on the floor
from events before
me

earlier today, yesterday, thirty
years ago
I can’t believe
I’ve never seen myself here
in this room
imagining drawings of deepest black
mottled green and coarse yellow
teabags on the windows
smiles in the doorways

because you can’t be cheerless
seven stories high