Matthew Abuelo Poet Narrative

Mornings Smoke Detector

The most important noise you will know: 
the smoke detector with a dying battery' 
out in the stair well
going off every three minutes 
with the aggression of bass
coming from passing cars 
in Washington Heights
to mid-town
and
just loud enough 
so 
sleep folds in on itself. 
Dreaming takes on a different meaning 
with a different face 

turning from a black and white movie 
to yellowed 
film  
still, 
flat 
motionless
and all that is left are the waking hours. 

It takes technique to escape 
the sound that keeps you incarcerated 
in an A tonal tomb. 
Street lights cast 
the turning silhouettes 
of fly paper in the living room. 
And there is always the hope for the hissing of the radiators 
two months away 
when the heat turns moist and heavy 
like the collective breath of Argentina.

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