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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