That crash could’ve been
an ancient computer tossed from the twentieth floor,
the Hewlett-Packard bricks in vintage disarray,
the collection of hipster hues in the hallway closet.
It was that loud!
The raised voices which follow make sense,
as if a strong-armed woman in her own right rose up to her man
and chucked his grandfather clutter out
that living room window, smashing glass after glass
rainbow-droplets squalling like the cats and dogs
that stalk the dumpsters.

Someone is shouting something and you can almost hear
the foot-stomping, I swear it’s that loud;
don’t they know I live in the apartment building
next to the one
that’s catty-corner from that hullabaloo?

It could be the crash was a man off his meds
determined to rid the place of anything loud,
anything that could fall to earth
to be louder than a ringing in his ears—
in that case,
I understand; all noise echoes
in such a neighborhood as ours.
But then why all the shrieking?

It’s lusty and animated,
but short and jagged
as if the shriekers run out of breath in spurts.
I see now
that the racket could also be the cats and dogs
that crash and bang into dumpster after dumpster,
their little wars turning ear-breaking—
half of them don’t have eyeballs anyways.

What a time to not have eyes!

A time of color, and of vibrancy,
ocean hues that can shock a soul;
ferny mountains carpeted in thick early summer
with giant palms lazing in the sweep of wind;
a time of danger and darkness,
when the night plunges into bowls of
chaos and crazies running around out-populating
the mailboxes. What a time to not have eyes!

Do they know? Do they know
what they miss? Surely—oh,
it’s too sad! It’s too far gone!
I’d rather imagine the crash was nothing more
than a Hewlett-Packard out the twentieth window
and a gentle, ironic spat from a couple
un-intertwining from love’s embrace.



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