Wednesday, March 26, 2014

English Heel

When people stop moving they call
that something or other. I know what to call
it when a diplomat swims. I know all about that.
I know people who've been made unsteady because
of what I've said. The answer is "yes."
From time to time: denim tights
and a vanilla snack cake. Like all
the ordinary days and then some.
So, I put the song "Nove Alberi"
by Harold Budd on repeat and it took
me 2-hours to realize that's a long time
to listen to one song. At least
the sounds of the renovation
in my neighbor's apartment downstairs
were drowned out a tad bit by the pulsing drone.
My neighbor is going to buy me a gift card to BookCourt.
That's what I told her I wanted when she asked me
if she could buy anything for me in return for
the inconvenience of the cacophony that's been
going on down there since early February.
Monday through Friday 8AM to 4PM.
I can hear the men downstairs sanding and sawing
and pounding and laughing or whistling. I can shield my face
with my hands. Rubber gloves, as I clean and remove.
One of the men downstairs is whistling something
as he screws something into the ceiling beneath my feet.
I took 5 pairs of my boots to the cobbler on Smith Street
just to get out of the apartment for some forceful wind.
I asked the cobbler and he said, "English Heel."


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