Bill Christophersen

Outside the efficiency flat, domestic

arguments ricocheted in the air shaft.

We were 25, 26; got by on canned ravioli,

pork and beans. Joked about living

in the land of the midnight sirens. Hell,

that street at night? Black as a garrison belt.

We’d eat our supper and stay put. Dishes done,

you’d read your Rex Stout. I’d stretch out, sip

a Schlitz, watch the TV sets flickering

like pilot lights in the windows opposite.

Once from the fire escape a gloved hand

worked a chisel under the window sash,

you screaming at the blinds, crying

for the things that come, the things that don’t.