5 Feb

The Neighbors, When the Train Arrives

The water weights away from the faucet, moistening the sink;

and I rise, for perhaps the fourth time, to retrieve a drink

of water.

My head doesn’t know the time that the clock keeps, and my bed

is cold in the distance. My couch

knows my presence. My indentation

is like a well taught lesson

to the gingham fabric and its internal connection

of metallic spring, stuffing… or whatever else might be between

the walls of the resale couch that we bought for twenty dollars.

 

The ceiling speaks with the neighbor’s squeaks

because they are not asleep either.

They talk loud enough to think that no one is listening, they

have sex as much because they believe that everyone else is sleeping.

Their exhausted box spring gives a grieving roar.

On the track, the last Metro Link train rolls by, announcing its arrival

at the Forest Park stop. It’s nearly one o’clock.

Then, the lovemaking slows down…stops, and then *slump*.

It feels too early to miss sleep, but insomnia has to start sometime.

 

The furnace is contagious in its wheezes and sneezes.

The clock gives a mouse-length cough every time the hand

moves a distance on the analog time keeper, on the wall,

which clicks louder than Buzz Aldrin’s heels on the areola-like moon.


 

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One Response to “”

  1. Natalie February 10, 2011 at 10:22 am #

    I love love love this poem. For some reason, I feel like someone is sharing a secret with me. It’s sexy in a mechanical way but who the hell is Buzz Aldrin?

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