Airshafts Revisited
by Odin Roark

Ah,
tenements of New York,
land of sky-less windows,
tenuous creaking walk-ups,
masonry decay,
doors begging forced entrance,
bonus airshafts for all.

Vintage ‘59 Ave C,
little to brag about,
frugal demanded frugal,
survival meant survive,
cross ventilation was…
well,
memorable .

Operative word…
Ugh.

Sunrises,
special.

Lift the blinds,
raise the window,
view the shaft,
revisit one's silo to Hell,
where the memories,
“…your huddled masses yearning to breathe free…”,
delivers the smell of decay,
the stickiness of smothering dampness,
provoking a rush back to bed.

Such was the reward for some.

For others,
those who looked,
not to look.
but to see,
there was embracing,
imbued shaded objects,
found historical nuance,
honored urban compost,
imagined growth of another kind,
all part of learning.

As Bernstein’s “Age of Anxiety” played,
gregarious tendrils climbed,
basement to 3rd floor summit,
exploded with conscious rebellion.

But complain not,
we loin clad warriors of creativity,
standing tall at airshaft’s ledge,
watching from what floor of not matter,
dropped careless memories,
acrid generational drek, kak, zmal, govno, go se, and coño,
crap and sh*t notwithstanding,
expressions of equal-opportunity-ethnicity.

Yeah,
we were struggling
of and for what?

We weren’t sure.

Occasionally,
amidst the pungent cross ventilation,
one wondered
from which escape-hatch fell
Tinker Toy dreams,
Raggedy Ann delusions,
Flipper-crutch anger,
BB Gun pay-backs.

Children all
we were.

Small and large,
we lived among innocent hearts of hope,
some with pen,
brush,
keyboard,
baton,
and crayon.

Others,
sadly splayed,
fisted,
punctured,
arm bleeding.

Airshafts.

If one listens carefully
there are still the echoes.

Yesterday's inhalant beginnings,
today's aerated reflections.

Oh, to start over.

Such bliss.

Just to imagine,
and thank doG
one is still alive,
knowing there’s more breath to breathe,
even in mere imagined new shafts.