My City Apartment
by Guinevere Campbell

Preparing for my nightly visitors
I open my windows:

Big Red cries up and down
distant twisting streets,
as close by,
"ka-smack!" go the boys
on wheeled, wooden planks
gnashing curbs and gliding
over new asphalt.

The trees, with their
newly sprouted chlorophyll,
sit quietly, as gentle winds
tease them with directions.

An occasional auto whirs by,
darting down streets
to who knows where.

Drips, from disobedient faucets,
lick tubs and sinks with delight,
creating a gibberish of small talk
amongst themselves.

Foreigners, without knocking,
enter and whisper
of their travels,
taunting me
for my sedentary form.

I try to defend myself
and explain my desire to travel
but suddenly find
I am talking to stale air.

It grows late.
I pull down windows,
leaving narrow crevices
surely none could fit through.

In a crisp, cool field of sheets
I close my eyes,
only to hear muffled voices
of returning guests.

For a moment
I writhe in disapproval
but then decide
to let their rhythmic murmurs
lull me to sleep.