there was something comforting in the passing of cars at night, when i was small and slept in half a bunk bed, light danced through my window and melded with thoughts turning into almost dreams. there was one road in front of my house and it, the sole vehicle conveyor.
i am on a rooftop now sheltered by two leafless trees and i can see the whole block i live on and i have been listening. i have felt them pass in all directions. a bus pulls up and, with all its creaking, stops, and then goes. the hospital looms like some castle and the red blinking constellation of a crane keeps it company.
some song drifts to find me and maybe it’s the same thing as a horn calling roman soldiers to battle and the stop light framed by two chimneys, the floodgate holding back these cars circling, circling to find me and i don’t know why, i couldn’t tell you why
but there is a siege being played out and the weapons: the sounds of night, rubber tire on asphalt, wind through trees, my own breathing, the cool air across my face, being pulled forward by the slant of the roof.
the hospital castle has released its forces and they make my eyes widen and blood pushes through veins and arteries too quickly and the oxygen content of this air must have lessened because each breath is not enough and my cold feet begin to sweat and make the soles of my sandals slippery.
there is only one car going around my block over and over.