walk through rooms, pass the folded laundry that's needed to be shelved for days, pass the ever unmade bed, the slow accumulation of coffee cups and water glasses on the dresser, underwear stepped out of in the middle of the bedroom and left right in the center of the well-worn path to the bathroom. pick up the guitar leaning against the wall. pick it up just for the length of a single song. sing yourself a slow version of Be My Baby then put it down. lean the guitar, a Christmas present nearly 2 years old, back against the wall rather than resting it on its good and sturdy stand, capo choking its head. stare at a pack of cigarettes and give in. wink at the postcard leaning against a row of favorite volumes in the bookcase, the one of Marylin Monroe treating a daisy like a cigarette, smiling and confident. sit down on the front stoop. feel the hard bundle of house keys in your back pocket knuckle your ass as you sit, cigarette quickly lit, and look out on to the familiar street. it's quiet. notice the neighbor's music floating down from upstairs, the same canned latin beat they've been listening to for years. the porch lights on the house across the street flicker so fast that it's impossible to believe someone isn't out there fixing it this very second. or at least turning the lights off. how can they stand it? it's been months, this flickering. maybe everyone in the building has been paralyzed by seizures, laying tormented and convulsing below their silent windows. remember seeing this on-off-on-off-on all last winter, getting a headache, lowering the blinds. this flickering. this ever-present and long-lasting, wild SOS in the dark.
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