Newborn Expelled by Sky, Saved by Snow
A newborn falls from the sky into the arms of outstretched buildings and settles upon impact on untramped snow. It's still asleep, and you can see its little tummy pace softly up and down against the line of its diaper. I've seen this too many times, and the reverent pedestrians surrounding at a distance and the cameramen and journalists recording away for the evening/morning news sickens me as I walk away, down the street to meet my subway train that will take me away. away. Sounds so glamorous, or phantasmic, a magical isle or something--but I really am just going to my apartment. Nobody's taking me. I'm going.
I live on the 367th floor of a co-op: cooperative ownership; means I own a piece of it, bought a fragment of stock, a frag-piece of all three-hundred-sixty-seven floors, particularly, the South, Southwest corner, resident 367-C. Three of us live here. Trent pees in the litter box, thinks he's a cat (his only quadriped companion died two and a quarter years ago: Furball the role model, she strained her building age thin in her maternal efforts, and left Trent a legacy of felinity). Bubble darts in his jar, eternally seeking shelter in the world's transperancy, and feeds on the algea that we assume grows on the discarded toothpicks. Three of us live here, I failed to mention, now, since Bubble only joined 367-C not long ago as an infant, and we wonder if he will live up to the life expectacny under these troubled conditions, or utterly suffer rollbacks.
I never know where this train takes me. I just know its the end of the line, the stairwell down from the street is a block West where the baby landed, and that the titanic canolies I first discovered in the shop window are always sufficient to content me the duration of each ride to the apartment's stop.
I'm here, I don't have a tv, so all my anticipation's energies target for the morning Times at my doormat: there's no doubt but a little, save for a more trite happening somewhere in the city for today, that the snowfall baby lands front page.
I live on the 367th floor of a co-op: cooperative ownership; means I own a piece of it, bought a fragment of stock, a frag-piece of all three-hundred-sixty-seven floors, particularly, the South, Southwest corner, resident 367-C. Three of us live here. Trent pees in the litter box, thinks he's a cat (his only quadriped companion died two and a quarter years ago: Furball the role model, she strained her building age thin in her maternal efforts, and left Trent a legacy of felinity). Bubble darts in his jar, eternally seeking shelter in the world's transperancy, and feeds on the algea that we assume grows on the discarded toothpicks. Three of us live here, I failed to mention, now, since Bubble only joined 367-C not long ago as an infant, and we wonder if he will live up to the life expectacny under these troubled conditions, or utterly suffer rollbacks.
I never know where this train takes me. I just know its the end of the line, the stairwell down from the street is a block West where the baby landed, and that the titanic canolies I first discovered in the shop window are always sufficient to content me the duration of each ride to the apartment's stop.
I'm here, I don't have a tv, so all my anticipation's energies target for the morning Times at my doormat: there's no doubt but a little, save for a more trite happening somewhere in the city for today, that the snowfall baby lands front page.
posted by Unknown at
3:21 AM
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