My balcony had no view to lean forward to,

It was pillars and a floor, and cement in between.

The door was small, I could walk through it

In a second. The other house looked back at me

Each time I did this, blank and white.

There used to be a tree that cut across the blue

With dark, heavy green and coconuts and made music

With the wind and water beneath. Now the sound

Is muffled by cardboard boxes and crumpled papers,

Old news that got trapped in time. Broken sandals too,

And jigsaw puzzles with many missing pieces,

That jab at my back when I lean against the wall.

I used to sit here often, before it became

Our hidden dump yard, the place we stowed away

The big bad and ugly. I use the terrace now,

To make my secret calls and read and write poetry

Only I find interesting. But it isn't mine, not like

My balcony that belongs now to the boxes and squirrels.