Flights of fancy (a work in progress).

I witnessed the orange orb effortlessly
sink behind the city,
and the whisper up the 10 flights
to our fifth floor homes,
of my aged and breathless neighbour’s labour,
turned my routine thoughts to poems.

I stood on my indoor balcony,
at the bottom of the 12th flight,
and witnessed the grand farewell to day,
as it ushered in the night.

Only the pigeons climb higher,
than my thoughtful place,
the last stairs above the landing,
their remains claim the attic space.

My neighbour who laboured breathing,
without a word he spoke,
unseen by him, he asked me why,
again you’ve begun to smoke.

Only to step outside my habit,
at the measured times of day.
Just to witness the changes,
and reflect on it, my way:

Nothing lasts forever,
not even all my cares,
like pigeons finding holes in roofs,
and old men climbing stairs.

We all find homes and leave them,
some sooner, or later, it’s true,
‘though life is the oldest habit we have,
we can always renew our view.