(no subject)

“Your listening to the story”. The radio clicks off with the last drag of a cigarette’s cheery lighting the empty night.

There is a single lamppost at the end of the street, on the corner, across form the stop sign.

The engine ticks, cooling.

There is a single cigarette but in the tin ash try next to the lipstick and pale powder by the vanity. There is a cold cup of tea with a stained spoon and a lemon rind on the napkin.

A dog barks incessantly in a fenced yard down the street.

The lace window treatment looks dated and cheap. There us a blood stain on the sheet of the unmade bed.

The moon is a shallow sliver.

There is a curled-cornered poster on the back of the door. There is a calendar with the picture of a lighthouse of sorts. It’s turned to the wrong month.