Erica has her own key
to her own apartment,
on the strength of a job letter.
No more nightly pay,
fancy but fouled dresses.
She sits in the arbourite kitchen
with a half jar of instant
and ten cigarettes.
As a spotted pigeon taps the window,
Erica takes stock.
Of unfinished school,
desperate and frustrated parents,
This donkey’s education.
Soured to life, in the age of exuberance.
Phantom Facebook friends.
It’s so silent in here, she thinks,
and walks, perplexed, to the window
with a finger full of peanut butter.
Bird must be hungry,
’cause it pecks like a jackhammer
and hurts her finger.
She draws back in fright. It flies away in fright.
What now? She thinks. Not a soul, not a soul do I have.
An apartment she has.
And an apartness. A leper’s loneliness.