By Madison Hu
when the light turns red, he will go home
in the meantime,
three friends walk
arm to arm
the baby is on his father’s shoulders
and it is nothing he can’t defeat yet
later, he will only recognize digital turns
the last time the signs
were this block-red
someone else
knew what it meant;
he replays sinking
desperation swirling in the laundry
spinning out the dirt accumulated from knee scrapes
he will rely on his bones instead
the face he owns melts
softer than when he was a baby
and the woman who fell in love
too long ago
sometimes forgets sweet things
in the end the light will turn red
and the couples upstairs
will housewarm every year
to ad infinitum
and the community garden will bloom
in the winter.
in the meantime, cracks in the brick of Apartment 4C let in light (and other particles)