just moved in to broke walk

black cat sits on top of the old convertible car every night. every night she arrives later and later. the street is quiet. the cat ignores her. the streetlight glares at her. the cameras turn round to watch. households mysteriously silent hide muffled children, drunken good sorts, free-running luminaries. tiptoeing up the stairs she sees the fox zoom past, doing his round of the first-floor walkway. a door bangs far away. cursing the wine she tries the keys on her new door, still unlearned. the door magically opens. the flat envelops her with its new paint smell. boxes clutter round the edges. heels echo on the wooden steps. up the room everest-hard. shoes off, clothes off, hair-clips off, glasses off. under the duvet she hears her heart and the occasional police siren. a couple walk by, laughing too loud on this serious street. sleep comes visiting with broken wings.

black cat races up the fence in the balcony every morning. every morning she wakes up earlier and earlier. the street is quiet. the cat a fleeting sound. the morning sun bursts in. households sleepy get on with their own business. a shadow flies over the rooftops. stretching out on the terrace she sips on a too-hot coffee and counts the trails of planes gone by. daydreaming of buenos aires. a cyclist zooms past hunting for shortcuts. she chooses a record and plays it quietly so as not to wake up ‘azel from next door who’s on a night shift. shower, glasses on, hair-clips on, clothes on, shoes on. no, not those. shoes off. other shoes on. a quick look round her new flat. a promise to finish painting the hall. to stop escaping in wine glasses. to put some pictures on the walls. to make a house a home.