Lucifer

sits on his window ledge–

not much bigger than the length

and breadth of his own body.

He hates laughter that rises;

loud, repetitive music and pigeons,

so many pigeons, they could be Chagall 

painting his balcony with their 

droppings. He hasn’t asked for 

any of this; the length of the ledge,

the breath in his body, the height 

at which he must always live. 

He doesn’t see faces, just the tops 

of heads and umbrellas opening, closing;

escape routes, all of them, to nowhere.

June 2026