"The Interim Hour" by Tsultrim Dorjee

CONTENTS THE INTERIM HOUR FIRELIGHT TWINE
THINGS I'VE LOST COSMIC PROFILES AUTHORS

There is a pleasant mid-evening rain over the town tonight. This after two heat blasted and birdless summer days. Where I write in the wind of a small fan beside two open windows. Without the stimulus of coffee or late night trips for wine. Only cigarettes and the plain pasta my roommate cooks. I thought I was leaving New Hampshire. I was sure, determined, had made plans, canceled my lease. Now I'm here for seven more shelterless months. As the church's old clock tower sounds its bells in the gray skies of every five a.m.

It's true I live in an apartment, a 'fire trap' some say. But it is not my home, only an interim. A bed of spruce leaves where I spend the night. Where I walk on leaving only a poem; a bitter ode to the town where I lost my place in myself.

I live on pills now and virgin drinks. My roommate only drinks water. I have a girlfriend, though rarely see her. She lives outside of town, and neither of us owns a car. She calls at seven and wakes me up, a night with little sleep. To hear her voice is to walk to an overlook. To see what truly lies out in the vast landscape of things. But, I know that this too is only a resting place. She loves other things, her heart leads to the city.

Why have I wasted so much of my life? In the din of what has no warmth. In the fluorescent alleyways that lead only to themselves. I want to walk again in the town of my birth and rest in its parks, share a meal with my parents and not be ill-taken by the many faces that sour in the afternoon sun.

There is no peace like that of silence. I must place myself outside of the storm, so that the rain may nourish new seedlings. The dusk is coming, swiftly now. I have nothing to give the world. The wavering cry of an ambulance tears its hands against my window screens.

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