I am not sure
if the hushed noises
above my thin-walled condo
are real or porn.
The unit across mine
is now vacant
after a night raid
by a camo-uniformed squad.
The old lady next door
fumbles another cooler glass
that shatters like
that colored Duralex.
I think they are
renovating the torched studio
on the left side
and fixing the gas line.
It is Ukraine again
on tired CNN
and on my monitor
is Trump’s foul incontinence.
My chest is full
of disconnected words
trying hard to make sense
before an outburst.
After having a cold beer
for quick lunch
my stomach is fermenting
a loud burp.
In my mind
thoughts pop like balloons
to finish an epitaph
for a fallen persimmon.
