Vignette

It was two, no, three storied yellow ltownhouse.
Squeaky wooden stairs led to a purple room. 
I remember the red couch, the glass vinyl player
and a vase of flowers by the window. 
On a coffee table sat an ash tray filled with cigarette butts. 
A fishnet hammock between chestnut trees
also had a cigarette burn. 
A cardboard-made octopus sat by the street
as the song by the Radiohead creaked from a stereo. 
A hawk sat on top of a pole, tearing up a rabbit,
as neighbors gathered over a garage sale 
where I found a Dostoyevsky book
and a letter between two lovers
slid in between the pages. 
A hookah bar hid a couple blocks down the street,
not to far from the quiet church
whose stain-glass glowed by the moonlight. 
The burning scent of oil paint fumes,
the sole piano on the hallway,
and burning heat through a white coffee cup
all mingling into one night. 
The closed eyes,
soft whispers of breathing 
and eternally peaceful fraction of a moment. 

4.29.2026