I believe a strange force field surrounds
the high-rise I live in.
This would explain the insanity,
the jumpers, baby-danglers,
elevators opening between floors,
and my perilous love life.
It’s not a force field that protects,
but revs things up, frenetic,
like too many nines in an address.
It explains the lady on the 14th floor,
dressed in vintage Edwardian,
who threw a butcher knife
down the length of the hallway.
Remaining in its clutches,
I will witness the balconies bleeding blue,
the flying buttresses unhinged,
3 a.m. false alarms, urgent
knocks at my door asking for help,
I have my place in it.