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Sport 19: Lightworks
The Blackstone
The Blackstone
I don't clean up. I encourage
whatever
to come and live with me
in the Blackstone.
Food lies on the floor. I don't mean
it advances. These are little piles:
parmesan cheese, a nut, a rubber
band.
Someone writes
on the quiet time notice: And NO guitar
it made my cat cry.
I can't cry in the apartment though
I heard the guitar.
I have to be in the office, people laughing
in the corridor, not walking
across my ceiling
dropping
things. Yelling
Tracy.
I still wash my clothes. Down in the laundry
a table
where we put items
we don't want. Novels, a cap,
pennies. The Japanese girls
leave indecipherable
make-up
and teddy-bears. A shoe, a kettle.
A tall man in his late
thirties puts his head around
the door. He's wearing a tiny
kimono-style
dressing-gown.
He looks terrible. It's the afternoon.
He takes a teddy-bear.
The hair on his—the man's—
legs
is brushed
the wrong way.