next door’s noise is rolling in while they move out.
door-slamming conversation doesn’t slow the church bells striding from street’s end, blunt-axing through neurotic wailing car alarms.
decisive click-click-clicks of next door’s switches fire at will, kill all but this headache, wondering if it’s early for red wine or just too late to stop
on the path, beside the furrow ploughed by motorbikes last night,
a random concrete slab is resting.
i count finite tap-tap-taps of rain.