There is a skylight in my bedroom,
and beneath it, a nest,
A chair where I perch,
watch the mess encroach upon my island.
And sometimes there are cries
at the bottom of the stairs, but still
I sit, and smoke cigarettes, and watch
the sky stream through.
I am an eagle watching the world
go by like daytime television,
Bored, morbidly interested,
drinking coffee and waiting for the tide
To pull me back to sea.
I wonder who is the moon, here,
If it is me, with my knee highs and white shirt,
or if it is the one crying at the bottom
Of the stairs. If it is they, they need
to pull harder. I cannot feel
Them in my nest. I can only watch