1.
The drizzle dripping of rain
down the rusted iron steps
of the fire escape. The wet-painted red
brick of the building next door,
the damp, empty courtyard between
considered an NYC green-
space. Its plants overwatered,
rain rivering down a table’s edge.

I have propped a chair under my door handle
and am settled with my back flush
against the cool glass.

2.
I lay stomach down
on the blue of my bed, volume
turned low on my laptop
as I struggle to hear over
the tin-thunk of rain
on the next-door roof.

The light through the curtains
gauzy and low, the warm glow
of the laptop inviting, the gold
knob of the door lock turned
all the way to the right.