I leapt out my bedroom window onto my Nimbus 2000.
A couple putting up pictures of their son.
The bobbing of a go-getter on her daily run.
On the 11th floor a shirtless man stared out the window,
contemplating football and failure. We exchanged hellos.
I flew to my lover’s home. He was sucking his thumb, falling softly asleep.
I flew to my sister’s flat. She was crying. I couldn’t comfort her.
I flew to my parents’ flat. It was filled with hornets and bees. Filled every
square centimeter of their tiny house. Deep from its heart came a pong that brought
tears to my eyes. I’m sorry, I prayed; for what, I wasn’t sure.
Maybe I shouldn’t have spent my last paycheck on a Nimbus 2000.
Now my broomstick beeps at me – flashing bright white and blue.
There’s work to be done. There’s work to be done. There is work to do.
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