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.
Roger Singer 