The light from the TV flickers
against the wall. I spin my chair
around to face the window,
the streets below barely wetted by a just-begun drizzle,
with the people hurrying back and forth,
disturbed by the new shower
like an anthill when poked with a stick.
Umbrellas have appeared
as if from nowhere—most black,
but some individuality can be seen
in the brilliant yellow few,
dashing from cab to bar
or club as the night begins.
Beyond all this, I say, the wish to be alone;
I watch them from above, peach in hand.
Lightning flashes white, as bright
as the pinkorange neon signs over dingy clubfronts, as bright
as the off-and-on blue lights from the squad cars
with wailing sirens, rolling up
next to angrily gesturing 20-somethings,
looking confused with the flashlight in their stupid eyes,
looking to get violent and into the car.
I sit here, safe above it all, away from jail,
from fights, from black eyes and ER visits. I sit here
alone, watching the ants scurry on the ground
at one and two and three o’clock,
rushing to regrettable, forgettable one night stands.