Interstices

Justin Keane
Sep 3, 2018 · 1 min read

The places between buildings, in stairwells, under thumb of a newsprint.
Empty space is like a haunting, everything that happens on the underside of a breath once collected into words.

You walk into the alley and think, I’m going to make something of myself. You think that there’s something to find.

Days later, you realize all that remains is that you were there. You flip on the radio and it goes beep, beep, beep and then these thick, goiter-neck voices come at you in a mockery of ingratiation.

The mailman knocks on your door. This could get nettlesome.
The super, two hours later, his face hot with usury. Never tell him a thing, your old lady used to say. Never.

The phone rings every hour. Each time you pick up, you give a different name. Last time you were John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt.

They laugh and tell you, hey, we have all night. All night and all day.
They say, yeah, you got stupid but you don’t have to stay stupid.

You turn on the TV and it’s the Honeymooners. It’s late, it’s fuzzy, and you take a pull on your beer. Might be I’ll just fall asleep in the chair, you tell yourself.

Might be I’ll just be here waiting.

Justin Keane

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