Porcelain

At weekends I climb to the top
of tall buildings,
exit onto the roof
and spin dinner plates on wooden poles.

I spend all week
searching charity shops
and no-hope junk yards
for fresh porcelain.

The plates lie heavy
in my rucksack
as I climb
car parks, tower blocks, and cathedrals.

The straps squeeze beautiful
lime green
and Prussian blue bruises
into my shoulders.

I start each plate on their pole,
sit crossed legged
and count the seconds before
they fall.

I record each passing
in a black notebook.
The lucky ones force
their stand unsteady

and veer wildly,
before tumbling from the roof
with pirouettes graceful
as a diver.

They do not ripple
the concrete below.
I hope one day you will find them
and think of me.