One in the morning.  I stretch,

turning off the light.  My book

falls to the floor.  Looking up,

a cerulean mist hangs as my

eyes adjust.  A curtain of black

soon covers the room.  A diesel

truck passes by below.  A window

shuts in anger.  The night stand

clock hums out of tune; an electric

song without soul.  Someone

upstairs walks to the bathroom.

My toilet starts to gurgle a tune.

Pipes within the wall rattle then stop.

Laughter surfaces outside. A garbage

can tips over.  More laughter.  Cars

pass by.  A bus hisses to a stop.  I

pull the covers up; cotton and wool

are the protectors from evil.  Transient

street lights slip beyond the curtains,

casting weak gray shadows on the walls.

It’s a thousand things in one night.

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