THIS IS NOT A POEM ABOUT MY NIGHT 6.20.17

1:17

sometimes sprinklers sound like people, who you think are sneaking up behind you.

There is that car parked outside of your gate, even though the street is a dead end, and you can see two people rubbing themselves against each other inside the car, one of them moaning.

What if the man in that car knows you are looking at him and his girl, and the crazy switch in him activates

and he decides to break into your house and kill you.

That is what these sprinklers sound like to me. Some distant death moving closer.

But now

they sound like rain as they rotate,

or a sharp wind, or the consonant S sustained endlessly.

They shut off. There is silence.

There is the sound of the refrigerator and some other vague buzzing.

I will sit here and wait for the sprinklers to reactivate. I will sit here and wait for the drugs to wear off.

1:30

 

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