Dorian Hargrove 8 p.m., Dec. 11
In the alleyway adjacent to my bedroom the old man behind the steering wheel applies more pressure then necessary and his car shudders, dies then shakes alive
I fall back to sleep
The behemoth trash collection truck screeching brakes and loud gears rumbles in the alley picking up metal dumpsters then, replaces each one with a thunderous crash.
I get out of bed
I prepare morning tea, the crisp vital fluid will help direct me toward a new day I enjoy the thought of sitting in the courtyard with my drink
Next door, little dog barks , doorbell rings neighbor lady yells hello as if directing her voice to a mountain top.
The door next to hers, a gentleman, in quick retaliation plays piano with petal to floor enthusiasm the dog barks with renewed vigor the neighbor lady threatens law suit.
I shut my windows
In the stark loneliness of living, true solitude becomes the holy grail; the measure of your status (becomes) how close to the street you exist.