the high rise

it's a secure building.
you have to sign in.
write on a ledger
your name,
your car, the plates,
the year
the color, who you might
be visiting.
the time.
the day. your mother's
maiden name.
people stare at you
as you wait
for someone to leave,
or go in with bags
of groceries,
then you grab the door
and enter. the buttons
don't work.
no one is at the desk.
there's a sign
reading pick up after
your pets.
someone has a couch
for sale.
it's on the board, next
to the board meeting notice
about mice. the couch
is plaid circa 1979
with someone
lying on top of it
asleep, his mullet hanging
over the side.
it's a high rise
with washers and dryers
in the basement.
a loading dock.
a cement pond out back
surrounded by barbed wire.
it smells like cabbage
in the windowless halls,
it smells
like shoes on the balcony.
wet towels
and cats.
the rugs, wet spotted,
are gold and patterned
with hexagons in red.
the walls are the color
of sand, the texture
is sand too.
it's hard to get in
this building, there's
a waiting list and harder
still to get out
once you've signed
a lease.