Apartment F3, Christina Kellogg

Eardrums are static
can’t hear the white walls
paneled though I groan
about the smell, this house is quaint
Outside, cars and something ticking
Radiator smells like gasoline
spread over burnt toast
Traffic-- swoosh--
could just be waves coming
to meet Adam’s pink conk on the sill
Voices freckling and fading
in the snow silently
against the glass under which
I find a new dead moth