There is a hint of chlorine in the air
as I hear flip flops fall on linoleum, slapping down the length
of an unseen hall. A crescendo and then,
the child sprints into my field of vision, arms held like
airplane wings, swim goggles
clutched in his fist.
He runs to an indoor pool, to play with his mother, or brother, or sister,
or maybe, single father. All things are possible in the flickery white hall
of this west side apartment palace, placed carefully away from the projects,
just close enough to the Trump Towers. I wait for you to bring down the dogs.