The street lies flat and undriven. Sleepless,
I watch it for hours. Raccoon families
claim the spectrum of asphalt grays,
seeking out wet gutters to rinse their hands.
A cargo plane flies overhead, calling me
in its one-word tongue, always masked.
Last week the air changed overnight, too large
a new scent for just one dead animal.
There must be many. You are asleep upstairs,
and a month might pass before I venture
within six feet of anyone but you. We have
never been closer. Out the front door, I think
—I see shapes flinching out of the dark.
The street-light pours down on them
like curdled milk in the spare fridge.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kimberly Kralowec lives in the Bernal Heights neighborhood of San Francisco. Her work has appeared in West Trestle Review and Poetry Midwest. She writes a poetry blog, anapoetics.com.