By the sun, I know the stairs from the street face
north. I go up, mote rising through slanted light,
through the door that locks the City out—into the
darksome hush. I do not disturb the pods, each
tethered to a different zero point. I go up one flight,
then two. Here the path turns east then south again
from the room with blackout curtains, home of the
old Jewish fellow who sits—white beard guarding
his chest—at his table reading the Torah in the
afternoon by candlelight. Past the bath, halfway
to the cockroaches' kitchen at the end of the hall,
I stop—turn west, insert a key into the lock and open
the door to my room—window facing North Dakota
a hundred years ago—single bed in the south and
east corner, table and chair at the foot. I sit to write
but lower my head, stretch my arms out, press my
palms on the cool green formica and listen. In the
whereabouts—bed spring frenzy—thumps and growls
startle—then succumb to the silence. One hand
makes its way back, soothes the hair from my face,
picks up the pen. The other remains on the edge,
absorbing the petulant reds. We are bound by a mutual
debt, these hands and I. They are here with me now—
faithful old friends tracing the cyan forms hovering
in the air—past and future working out the difference.
asha
published in Stepaway Magazine
