Sat here in my room, next to the train line. Reading Ginsburg’s America. The planes coming down around me threatening to pass through my window. I wonder how quickly I can move if the nose ploughs in through the fern curtains. Into my life into my room.
The trains carry on past just glimpsing in as they go. The flowers outside dance in the wind, God’s breath giving them life. And the three cats sit and laze knowing attention will come their way, sooner or later – not bothered. Waiting.
The piano begs my fingers, though they know no melody and rhythm but I’ll let them dance over the keys, tapping out my song. When the right notes hit it feels me full of majesty, happy, high on life like no drug.
I wanted to write about number 41 when I was there but destiny altered that desire and now it will have to be done with hindsight. Though hindsight is better than no sight at all I wish I was there to clearly describe to you that plain old building, fifth along in the row of twenty or so. And with the events surrounding us leaving that blackens the view, dim’s the picture – which will have to be dragged from my clouded memory anyway. I’ll go away and think about it and return to disclose my secrets.