The big train thunders off to anywhere on tracks hidden behind the brick row of every single one of my neighbors homes, every one basically similar, a few with black doors and some with white, the occasional gold font differentiating the truly eclectic house numbers from the rest of ours, black and etched into the granite to the opposite side of our doors’ bells. The sound of wild gay parties around the corner and across the alley behind our own little piece of this long brick homefront. Everyone’s stoop is quiet. Further down the street someone has left their front light on. A few of the other neighbors still have living room or bedroom lights on, assuming the interior layouts of their domiciles matches the same one behind me, as I solely sit on our own tight brick front porch and try and make sense of whatever it is that’s ahppening here.
It’s night time, it’s August, and anyone who isn’t sleeping is either at the bar or me.