O D

Coils of barbed wire,
threaded with captured windblown plastic,
skirt the high rise.

Refuse tossed
from the gaping floors above
collects on the ground

floor tin awnings.
Tubes and wires slide up
and down the walls.

A wide window opens
to the only room
in the gray watermarked building

where the living dwell.
Up there, a rope loosely hangs
with wet towels and shorts

above a line of tins and dishes
set out to dry in the sun-scarce day.
Is this facade an elaborate

hoax, mid-city,
randomly repeating itself ?
Every ditched site

tagged with a lopsided
white O, or a pushed out of shape
D, in reach of a third floor

corner flat, like this one.
Its sole occupants, never seen
Their reason for being

there,
long lost
within

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