(#22) On momentary homes.

Prompt: look out the window, write about the world.

reedy rapacious voices
they’re always shouting next door.
my pyrrhic victory led me here,
to this amorphic city in a city
of cities, a blip on the radar
of an anonymously tilting god.

my mistakes have dragged me this far,
i suppose,
my failure to rise has chained me to:
a charming one-bedroom,
(momentary home.)
no dogs, fifth floor.
washer/dryer in the basement.
$900/mo, eagerly snapped up.

here, that is a sign of something.
somewhere else, it means jack shit.

hastily shoved patterned cloth
marks the windows of the building
next to mine.
i don’t know if it’s curtains
or an attempt to keep the smoke in,
but they come billowing out on windy sundays
with great rushes of energy

my elderly neighbor keeps the police on speed dial
my retired neighbor rushes up and down the stairs,
tamping a community
forgetting we all have to leave.


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