10? 15? 31. 31 cigarettes, that’s how many butts rest rubbed out in the rusty glass retainer of this rear room window, for now.
11, the number of cast iron bars welded together in this fire escape before 1, 1 rod turns teal from residual spray paint, applied at a distance so that there’s a rough area of concentration, 1 spot where the black became blue in a sharp line where a sharp edge once lay.
2, 2 deflated tires attached by decrepit spokes to a dusty Mongoose left for dead in the dilapidated downstairs apartment.
0, the amount of bugs killed by the zapper dangling, probably never even engaged except for ill illuminated evenings asking for effervescent lighting.
5, 5 2×3 windows encased across the street in curvaceous braces meant to look beautiful, beyond the impenetrability it portrays of its inhabitants.
1/2, ½ of the bottle remaining of Jameson on the unvarnished nightstand, so New York.
??? the times Frank has grunted in discontent on his bed while I write and he works, his career comes off as a chore, shame.
What if numbers were colors? This life would be bright, flamboyant, vibrant. But instead it’s industrial, ugly, real, and thank God for that.