Numerology
The neighbours have moved in next door.
They've installed a fountain,
and it trickles away through the night,
lulling me to sleep,
entering my dreams and waking me to urinate.
I decided to keep a dream journal,
to write down the first thing that comes to mind when I wake up each morning,
but it's the same every day:
"6am, need to pee."
Maybe I'll stop drinking,
and dream of a hidden oasis instead.
The neighbours have moved in next door.
They watch the football,
they watch their daughter on the trampoline,
they watch the stock market -
they have a preoccupation with circles, it seems.
I send a paper plane
as an ambassador for triangles,
in an arc (the smallest part of which
still suggests a perfect circle),
through my window, into the warm air,
in through their window,
into the path of a champagne flute:
"440hz 440hz 440hz 440440440440440440
SMASH" into a million triangles on the floor.
Three weeks later they're still finding shards
glinting up at them from delicate feet.
The neighbours have moved in next door.
A mother, a father, and a four-year-old girl.
She cries, they fight.
The rent is four hundred dollars a week,
but they work too hard to find the time
to sit in the garden,
where box hedges close them in for security.
From the window
[my brother taught me a riddle once:
"What does 1+1=?"
"A window"], they could watch the new spring life.
But yesterday they installed roller shutters.
Now no one can enter,
it's two hard to get in,
so they're three to relax
in their urban fourtress.
The neighbours have moved in next door.
I can hear the little fountain splashing,
I can see the trampoline,
I can watch birds build nests in box hedges
and I don't hear the football from their loungeroom anymore.
I had a dream that they moved out again,
maybe they did?
We'll have new neighbours soon:
number 31 is prime real estate.
They've installed a fountain,
and it trickles away through the night,
lulling me to sleep,
entering my dreams and waking me to urinate.
I decided to keep a dream journal,
to write down the first thing that comes to mind when I wake up each morning,
but it's the same every day:
"6am, need to pee."
Maybe I'll stop drinking,
and dream of a hidden oasis instead.
The neighbours have moved in next door.
They watch the football,
they watch their daughter on the trampoline,
they watch the stock market -
they have a preoccupation with circles, it seems.
I send a paper plane
as an ambassador for triangles,
in an arc (the smallest part of which
still suggests a perfect circle),
through my window, into the warm air,
in through their window,
into the path of a champagne flute:
"440hz 440hz 440hz 440440440440440440
SMASH" into a million triangles on the floor.
Three weeks later they're still finding shards
glinting up at them from delicate feet.
The neighbours have moved in next door.
A mother, a father, and a four-year-old girl.
She cries, they fight.
The rent is four hundred dollars a week,
but they work too hard to find the time
to sit in the garden,
where box hedges close them in for security.
From the window
[my brother taught me a riddle once:
"What does 1+1=?"
"A window"], they could watch the new spring life.
But yesterday they installed roller shutters.
Now no one can enter,
it's two hard to get in,
so they're three to relax
in their urban fourtress.
The neighbours have moved in next door.
I can hear the little fountain splashing,
I can see the trampoline,
I can watch birds build nests in box hedges
and I don't hear the football from their loungeroom anymore.
I had a dream that they moved out again,
maybe they did?
We'll have new neighbours soon:
number 31 is prime real estate.