The old men have returned to their card tables for the first night in many. Fitted in warm coats by
daughters or wives, they drink tea in painted cups outside of the Tea House. We share the sidewalk and
the windows on top of windows. You and I produce muffled news inside our crepe-walled vacuum.
Behind our door, we are two plates of rice and whatever is going bad. We hear the radio forgetting its
purpose and finding it again in polkas. We turn pages and scorch pans. Come morning, the slanted sun
slides through the blinds across our chapped hands. The milk crates outside are neatly stacked against the
shuttered wood facade. Orange peels in their final resting place, a dirt bath for songbirds. You have
already fed the cats while I was asleep. All that’s left to do is wash the spoons.