Photo by Stephen Kruso

In summer, its trees blaze with color,
their fingers spilling over the tenants.

There is a smoker, our fixture, his cough
a deep chime. One, two. His second-floor watch

is consistent but punctuated. There are children,
creatures of the afternoon, DayGlo bicycles

lurching forward with half-flat white tires. Sometimes,
I come home drunk past midnight. I am mostly

alone. Sometimes, there are families grilling meat
and I am offered thin slivers and conversation.

Sometimes, there are only men—too few to call
a congregation—drinking beer in the lamplight.

Their good-natured laughter is enticing,
their bottles amber-bright and too warm to sweat.

These are the most nondescript men I have ever seen.
Once, he followed me inside. I woke with a full Modelo

on my nightstand and my forearms ripe with bruises:
a used-up cutting board, a dry oil slick, a woman’s

stained underwear. Now sometimes I come home
and fall to my knees. He’s here—

in the corners, behind each closet door, crouched
in the shower. The AC growls awake.

One, two.