Tiled Balcony

Large balcony, enough to fit a small party of chatting, laughing, smoking drinking people. The tiled floor is a reflector of heat during the whole of the afternoon, but right now I am safe, the square grey tiles are covered in shadow. Each tile is cool to the touch, big enough to fit an entire flattened hand. Dirt from the elements is dry and subtle, resting in minute crevices on the partially rough surface. To stand on the balcony is to listen to the constant stream of traffic from the street. Petrol powered waves crashing on a bitumen beach. Every now and then a large set of buses breaks at the traffic light sandbank. Sometimes punctuated by the deep throated roar of a motorbike exhaust. Overhead planes are like a sudden rain crashing down on the balcony as I lean over the glass edge to let the breeze buffet my face. Petrol, tar, pollution, a slight whiff of nature from the tree across the road. Cicadas rise up, synchronised against the tyranny of the auto-mobile. Painted white concrete on the edge of the tiles supports the glass barricades that display my imprisonment up here, three floors above the road. More gatherings of dirt and pollution, rougher than tiles. If I imagine touching the concrete, I imagine the white powder of paint covering my palms.