Between the Walls

Summer, 2003 / No. 10

That there’s lightning is a guess he’s only too willing

to hazard; thunder shakes the windows

almost as often as raindrops moisten them, but exterior light

doesn’t come here, not even in slivers. The centipedes

won’t hear of it. A plate of eggs will have to do, and some

toast of course, and one of the fuzzy channels the TV’s

been receiving lately. He has it pretty good, he’d say,

though the work hasn’t been enough. There’s three pills left,

but he’s been in the pink recently and figures

he’ll just quit taking them, skip the refill, cling

to the hope that things will pick up, i.e., with work,

say, and the doctor, and the rain will stop eventually, and

the centipedes will, instead of drying out between the walls,

die and fade away or turn into silvery flakes of money.