7 stories down from where she lives
|
below the floor and past the voice
|
that says that things are his
|
through carpets, talking, paint layered on the walls
|
and eyes that roll like dice
|
when she walks past them in the hall
|
outside her window
|
the sun spins with the red of summertime
|
and time moves so slow when she's stuck inside
|
|
there was a night last week
|
she saw stars from her room
|
over the building next door
|
with the hydro line tower on the roof
|
she thought about airplanes
|
and satellites orbiting low
|
while aspirins and drawn curtains
|
avoid the urge to go away
|
from where the old couple out across the street
|
dancing like actors in their open windows
|
for all the world to see
|
shuffling like papers for all the world to read
|
"can't you see my dear?
|
there's someone in that window over there..."
|
|
-----------------
|
The Apartments
|
| Greg MacPherson |
