I stand in the hallway and speak softly. I stand in the doorway and take notes. I sit in the living room, scribbling in the margins. I mark the actions of others, and leave little room to interpret. All the lights that should be on are on while I am there, and I turn out all the other lights on time. It is all sad endings and strange origins. It is all the work that will have me, and it doesn't want me all that much.
I drive home all rush and sleep walk, autopilot between the lights and lanes. The crush of the warm night air winds through open windows, the fast lane not even seeming ironic at the hour. Drunks and other maniacs do their best to ruin what ever it is that is left me, and so far they fail. The cops mind their business, and business seems to be booming. Old cds cycle again and again, some favored play list burned onto plastic. Some songs that I needed just that much a scattered handful of years ago.
Midnight at a grocery store, the stagey sighing of the staff as they stock shelves and roll their eyes. I proceed with false purpose, eyes already regretting the errand. Towers of food and drink and errata. All the reasons that pass for motive as the day resets and time creeps down the walls. All the secrets carried wordless between strangers, all the commerce the night can hold. I buy a little something for everyone, tricks and treats for another morning. Something sweet and something savory to greet someone else's dawn.
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