Hymn for the Walk-Up

Five floors up, you can hear the city dreaming —

the radiator keeping time,

the pipes conducting their slow conversation,

the man below who plays Coltrane at nine.

This is the hymn for the walk-up,

for the stairwell and the key.

For the light that hits the landing

just after half past three.

For the window and the pigeons.

For the water on the sill.

For the life that keeps on living,

quiet, ordinary, still.

The woman on the second floor

has lived here forty years.

She nods but doesn't speak much.

She waters the same plants.

I think the building holds her

like a word it can't forget.