High heels on concrete clack               Train—bell clang and engine rumble, squealing wheels on tracks, metal on metal, too close              Garbage truck as if through living room                    Young man clan talking too loud all three to five at once past my window                   Dog bark, near                  Old junkie on the corner yells violent mads at bypassers and I’m in here            Car horns, always car horns               Feminine laugh—I wonder                  Man snorting—I don’t                     Building across the street has a front door security code that I’d have cracked by now if all the tones weren’t the same                    That motorcycle, jesus, why              Doors slam shut in the hallway inside behind me and voices              Inside behind me and voices                   Silence never, only noiseless spaces and I turn in

After dusk now, and dark in here, save for the closet light spilling into the bedroom. Windows are open. Streetlights. My old first floor flat, about four feet above sea street level. I sit and listen, sit and watch from the couch from the dark in here, sit and slip into reality, where it’s all imaginary and I can feel it coming on.

A crack in everything, and something comes.

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About mischa

I write things about stuff, and sometimes stuff about things. Depends on the day.