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.