reflecting on someone elses past

On the building near where you grew up
the fire escape was rusted out a bit
and bits of black paint swishkikikitated
down around my arms into my short brown hair
sticking on my navy sweatshirt and
my torn-in-the-ass blue jeans

before tikikikikik-pahcooking
off the
red br
icks
and landing ever-so-harmlessly
on the sundried-baked dirt and asphault

I'm not saying I knew this when
I could have really enjoyed the view
and your lack of consciousness of shades
and mirror angles,

but I thought you might be interested
that I wish I did.