Angel Piscola

Chipped blue paint greets my fist
during my rooftop meeting with the devil.
"No, not blue. Turqoise,"
he said with poise,
his hand on my shoulder
his arm on my back.

"You and I, we stand alone on the precipice
of greatness," he whispered.
"On the verge of removing choice
from the equation."
His hand on my shoulder,
his arm on my back.

"All it takes
is a little
push."
His hand on my shoulder,
his arm on my back

And I fly.