Fallen leaves in Brooklyn

Down four flights of brownstone stairs Wilson barks,
stairs creak, a stroller
is banished into a landing corner –
in these servants quarters
a black-sheeped dresser in the living room
poses as a crib.
Cracked windows whisper
of Brooklyn open spaces where Air has no architect.
Neither do the paths
we weave. X-Marks the spot
where a stranger and I cross. Senses or smells or hair disappearing
I am aware
I’ll never know the man cradling wires
instead of his son.