By Joshua Arnold

I look down
two hundred stories
past a red dress
and a fire hydrant,
toward a grey sky
pierced with high heels
and a taxi cab.

I am one part battery acid,
one part chewing gum,
one part cheap cologne,
but mostly an image.

A man stops beside me,
looks down at his watch.
I crawl inside his shoes,
creep up his legs
and into his nostrils.

He strings me
across the street;
yellow, black, and red
blend together.

When we reach the sidewalk
he shakes me off.
Two hundred
Empire State Buildings
and one red dress
evaporate into the air.