From my windowsill I can hear the crescendos and decrescendo of an argument falling over it self in the pallid night air,
I sit a mixture of curiosity and semi-aroused fear, languished with my own limited understanding,
The man is screaming about something to do with money mentioning grand words that strike with ferocity like “Abomination” or “Travesty”
As if spending forty dollars on groceries shed innocent blood like genocide,
Yet the next house over, laughter overflows and pauses like a mouthful of shattered glass,
It is a dinner party I imagine, one that caused the expensive and rarely used table cloth to be recovered from the box of china and ironed,
The atmosphere matching the wine they selected, light and crisp, filled with bitter stabs at co-workers and sweet notes of past experiences,
The next house tremors as the argument ravages again and I can see abstract figures filtering through the half parted blinds,
Limbs askew as if trying to detach them selves from their torsos,
And I am presented with three sides of life all coexisting from beyond the boundaries of the street,
I represent the times of nothingness and mild contemplation that occurs when the fighting is muffled and the laughter has refused to arrive in the most ironic of times.