apartment 22
i like the way the range hood fan spins when the wind blows through my open windows most mornings, even though it probably means the fan is broken or old
i like the light pink tile on the shower walls; it brings to mind a poem i would have written if I'd been alive in the 70's. i still might
i like hearing the St. Ignatius church bells toll on the hour; a too-jovial song rings out once a week, reminding me it's Sunday
i like the paper snowflakes hanging high in the foyer window. hope held fast to something that will never come
cheers from the bar downstairs rush in, any time of day. must be a sports game on
the 5R bus zips down its route, overhead wires whirring. "Fulton Street: Ocean Beach." the automated announcement. trapped in the heart of the city, or 10 minutes from the Pacific expanse? you choose
at night the fog sits heavily over my window view, but I never feel alone. sometimes it's a vagrant's distant shriek that fills the void. mainly it's the wind