Banging on the ceiling by a downstairs neighbor bearing reproaches, I'm indifferent,
Feeling the evening like velvet settling over me,
The air undulating with sounds of a temperate city.
I think of jewels and the value I am and the value I could be,
Provided I'm not broken by reality. I can sit, television humming.
The birds are silent. I try to picture them sleeping and also picture how it is to sleep as a bird,
Tired from gathering twigs and worms and discarded bread, unimpressed with my ability to fly, perhaps I dream of walking,
Perhaps in another life I dream of being me.
I'll be a whale.
Maybe I'll turn down the music. There's banging again. The lady downstairs wears a scarf but I don't remember her face and the super is a superior old lady
who doesn't do anything
Except mop in the mornings. She brings in cheap labor for everything else.
I end up fixing my own things,
Ending up tired like a bird who's been gathering twigs,
Wishing I were somewhere else