Alone and Free on a Tuesday Night

I watched a bee enter through the crack in the window.

It settled on the glass for a moment,

Then it began to circle the old mugs and empty bottles.

Then it hit the glass with a small but defiant thud.

 

Again.

 

And again.

 

As if the next time would bring freedom.

 

I felt pity for the first time in a long while.

Poor bee,

It can only see freedom and not the obstacle in its way.

I left it there, resigned to its fate

While I washed dishes

And stared at the grain of my skin.

The sun was leaving slowly

And the city was beautiful.

In that moment, myself and the bee,

we were still.

 

That night there was a fog

And all the street was quiet

So I didn’t go in.

I didn’t enter the door for another minute.

The trees were industrial saints

With golden halos

manufactured by the street lamps,

Electric suns without an orbit,

Angel makers.

And all the street was quiet

So I didn’t go in for that moment.

And walking up the silent steps, except for the echoes of my own footsteps,

I knew what it was to be alone and free

And I cared for neither of them.

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