its a birthday party downstairs, seven flights
into the intersection of cartwright with the tennis courts and hotel lobbies gleaming
with polished marble and crystal chandeliers.
seven floors, and I can still hear the clattering of metal against porcelain
I can pick out your voice, and singing
the tune of happy birthday washed against recognition,
but in our minds still clear.
a pocket of laughter, as to its origin you’re unaware, I’m sure
you tilt your head back and swallow a healthy sip of stella
then lean against her to whisper you love her.
a birthday you’re celebrating, this passage of time
mired in constant progress.
ahead, for all the world to see and judge
and for me to hear, from seven floors above your heads