The Pipes Cough Symphonies

Cold, wonderfully cold!
On the floor with a single woolen blanket
In mid-November
The pipes gently cough dreadful symphonies,
In full orchestration with the buzzing frigde and the drips from the tap.
Through the paper walls I hear people next door fight
They scream and they fight loudly
I lay on the floor, cold at night.

There’s a small bird clucking at my window
I can see its shadow
Looming large on the sliver of light cast by the moon
Light pitched in one warm line into the corner.

by Patrick O'Reilly

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