Across distant typewriters, shuffling

fingers dispatch tremors into my wings.

I become a moth on the window, my legs

settling into the grout, moonlight

settling into my back. A country song

thrums from the soul

of the Gardener’s portable speaker: fingernails

against the sill’s steel before fading

into static. The AC unit arrests me

with its first blast. Air fresheners

hang from plastic coat-hangers in empty

closets. The stones enshrining the porch

measure dust in the footprints

of all who walked out the door

and never returned. Basketballs resurface

in the pool. The Gardener, a bronzed

god with shears for hands, emerges

from the hedge. He calls me

by the name my brother gave me

as we chased each other

for the ball, sending clouds

over the dirt. Which one is yours, Loser?

Golden spheres, flattened

Spaldings, short-lived freebies

from Laker games. They roll

into the soulless street. Tonight,

I’ll drive by, my face pressed

against the car window. I’ll pause

the music. I’ll listen for the warmth

of a moth clinging to the glass.

The typewriters choke, the same line unending.

I’m on the window, waiting for something to happen.