Night Windows

A boy ages quickly in New York,

sometimes seeing things earlier than necessary.

like from one brownstone across the street to another.

Old men live by their bad dreams,

so, sleeping little is their pattern.

This old man shuffles with bare feet

the few yards from bedroom to kitchen,

avoiding light switches which might flick nightmares to life.

He often gets winded with the short walk,

leans against the wall

and listens to his heartbeat,

or the thrumming at his temples,

as he stares belligerently at the one window in the room.

To him…

The glass is always dark, opaque, lightless,

like a blackboard from his youth,

reminding him how alone he was then,

how isolated he’s made himself now.

He squints at the fine math-chalk line of the past,

accepting it not much different from the present,

just division of another kind.

Separation lines remind him he’s either here…

or about to be here no more.

And…

Across the street from another window,

the boy continues to watch

as the old man nods to himself,

exerts the extra effort to make it to the kitchen

as he continues his mumbling,

“Stupid glass of water was the goal,

not getting trapped again by that window.”

He feels his way through the hall,

listening to the roaches and mice in the wall,

grumbling, “God gave THEM all the frickin’ survival skills.”

as he glances over this shoulder at the window

where the wails of a homeless drunk on the street echo up.

Not to be ignored…

The ghost of his own dead father tip toes past him,

making a beeline for the kitchen

and another night of watching the glass of water ritual.

The boy across the street steps back from the bedroom window,

takes a last sip from his own glass of water,

and climbs under the covers.

After all, he has to contend with his own dreams, as well.