The old woman who lives in the penthouse
lives on her balcony, twenty stories
up, and perhaps higher. Her sleeping bag,
red and turquoise, is aired on the railing.
She has a multi-colored parasol
to protect her from the rain, sun and wind.
It once flew away, billowing its ribs
backward. Either it was rescued or replaced.
Her children beg her to come in but she
refuses, cursing them as she waters plants,
waves to the neighbors in the other buildings,
plugs her phone into the special phone jack
she had the telephone people install.
She has had the superintendent take
all the furniture to the locker.
She looks like a witch, but no cauldron
boils on her territory, no birds
come close anymore, although she has crumbs for them.
She has asked the super to
sublet the apartment, but he said that
no one would take it without the balcony.
That’s fine, she said. I’ll live on the railing.