In May a year ago when the trees on my block
wore white flowers
and I walked through the flat I live in now
viewing its transitional mostly-emptiness
a few boxes and a plant not yet moved out
Up and down the street were men
with blowers on their backs
floating away the petals in a noisy mechanical windstorm
and
my landlord to be said that this
was as loud as the neighborhood got
and he was right but misleading
giving the impression of a quiet place
I don’t know
I haven’t checked – perhaps they keep their windows closed
they are on the first floor after all
but up here with my slant-ceilings I keep them open
and my neighborhood, my block with trees
and scraggly grass verges full of dogshit
(my last place: no trees, no grass, still plenty of shit)
is not quiet.
For some reason I don’t know the elementary school across the street
converted now into inexpensive
housing for older people
has small fires or at least fire alarms
almost every week
and for some other reason I don’t know
cars like to drive down the one way street
Marshall Street
honk-honk-honk-hoooooonking the whole way
which I imagine is some sort of a game
or threat
or signal to somebody
but not me
and sometimes the small dogs bark
back and forth and back and forth
through the open windows in a conversation
that sounds like
“I’m here!” “I’m here!” “But I’m here!” “But so am I!”
and absolutely best of all is the woman who wanders
down my street and sings
in Spanish, operatically, at the top of her lungs
sometimes beautifully and sometimes tunelessly
songs that sound old
but I don’t know, I wouldn’t know
Sometimes late at night couples fight and cry,
and shout, walking down the street
once I heard one-side whole shouted story
into a cellphone, sitting in a car
a woman trying to get her child’s father
to watch the child while she worked
screaming
And I don’t know any of these people
I have not asked about
the songs
the dogs
the fire alarms
the story behind the honking
I like to listen to it all
the whole vibrant sound-story
I feel a little guilty, sitting up here
in my own neat little world
eavesdropping on a sort of life
that is not mine at all