Not with me, because the attic will only be yours
you will have a bath
a gas stove
your view will be of a busy intersection
and on the evening that the building adjacent to yours
burns down
you will be a distressed neighbour, though safe
and warm
in your attic
because heat travels up.

Summers are hot, you will have fans
you will sunbath on the roof, looking at asymmetrical clouds
and a boy on a skateboard going down the hill on the main road
will watch you
naked
but you will pretend to not have noticed and will
carry on drinking your gin
and tonic.

The winters are cosy, this is a small attic
downstairs, the woman with her children and her long curly hair
will struggle to keep them entertained
with all that school work, the absent fathers
and the frosted windows blocking the outsides.

But what of the ground floor neighbour
the man with the cats from Poland
or next to him
the young boy with the weed and the cool laughs?

You should live in an attic because
flowers will be closer to the sun
and the depressed corners of your room
will collect your erupting dreams
and ground your nightmares as you
doze off with a glass of wine.

You should live in an attic because baby,
no one lives above but all the gods
peering at you, as you make love
loudly into the morning and the night.

But not with me, because the attic will only be yours
the bath
the flowers
the stove
and all the other ceilings are forever too short.