At the Roosevelt

it's one squared building
L shaped and squat, nine floors
perhaps, a balcony to each
with a sliding glass
door for which
to see the splash of a
blue pool set off behind
barbed wire to the side
of a striped parking lot.
beyond that is the highway
that travels in and out of the city.
the hallways are long,
vanilla paint, scuffed flat
and scarred by incessant
moving in and moving out.
the doors are brown.
each floor the same,
with it's checked carpet
or linoleum, buffed dull
whether traveling left
or to the right.
the elevator clanks
and squeals, it strains to pull you up.
no pets allowed, but you hear
the muffled bark of
one, or two dogs, and see
curled on many sills
fat cats staring at the birds
tree high, out of paws
reach.
the laundry room is gloomy
beside the cages of bikes
and tables for outside use, umbrellas.
stray socks and discarded
blouses and shorts lie on the slab
floor, amongst the tumbleweed
of lint and dust.
the washers and dryers
are both a porcelain white,
but streaked in rust. a coke
machine is bright and colored
in the corner, its red
lights strangely odd
against the cinder block walls.
no coins, it says taped over the slot
which is bent from being
pried, not open, but in anger
perhaps. you can smell
a dozen different countries
of food seeping through
the hallways, up the dank
stairwells. cabbage and rice,
chicken and curry, things boiled
and roasted, pan fried or delivered.
all somehow making its brew,
cooking together in disharmony.
the sign outside the building
says if towed, call this number.
you take special of that.