The water sloshes against the cement walls of the wharf. 

Metal challenges metal, my bicycle skids to a stop,

marking the railing. 

Radiant lights from too-close skyscrapers twinkle brazenly, 

refracting off the handlebars, and perching in the corner of my eye.  

Into skin seeps the smell of döner kebab mixed with cheap beer.

The sharp noises of a buzzer-beating carnival game begin wilting,

the discordant patter of feet ends. 

Below surface, fish curtsy. 

Lights bow out.

Toe to toe with scorching heat, silence frolics. 

Gravel imprints on the back of my legs.

My eyes total floors of the never-finished tower, 

built to touch God. 

Seventy-two layers of cement. 

Seventy-two plus three layers of cement. 

If the tower decays, I wonder whether 

the initials I chiseled in its drying first layer

 will remain preserved in the debris.

The light enters 

the Greek restaur– 

no, the corner shop next door.

 The new owners still have not scraped off 

the original periwinkle blue signage.