Pagan Concessions

What the Hell was that?
you ask yourself
at the rip on the rooftop adjacent.
That building ends a storey shy of yours
so you've never worried
about wandering naked
or racking slides in your apartment
with the lights on late at night.
The unit's for sale
and you've wondered if some Hipsters
from Brooklyn will break the roof hatch lock soon.
But tonight, exhaling smoke
at a fan perched in the window
the repetitive noise of slamming and tearing
on that rubber rooftop has you drinking faster.

It's the brand of fear
only made worse by acknowledgement.
If you look through your window
to identify the source of the raucous repetition
it'd be akin to pulling the blanket over your head.
You take a pull, wipe out a red ash
that fell to your skivvies
and try to appear unmolested
by what you do not know.
It happens again as if on cue.
It's a person.
There are people.
Moving now would scream defeat
so you sip your Spanish red.

Somewhere across the river
you've always lived along
another Unknown looms larger.
Last on that list, but not the best saved
that willow is weeping
and runs its own course.


Currently reading:
"Hearts in Atlantis" by Stephen King.