Three Floors Up

They put a bus stop indoors,
Over a couple of handicapped
parking spaces.
A smokers’ enclosure,
parallel black benches,
runners for a circular dirt-filled
concrete pot, a garden
where butts will never take root,
where the harvest is twice daily.
Three floors up
but the fall is forever,
and across the way you can see
yourself, a distant figurine,
in the tinted office windows,
a white shirt surrounded
by a sun-slaying brown.

In twenty years we’ll pull in,
drive by in our Lincolns,
an iron lung strapped
in the passenger seat,
and wheeze
“Now where should I put
my car?”