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.