The Stopover

The stopover

Inside the lift a young girl repeats the old black number “You gotta press it once you’re in,” she scolds

and bounces away into the third floor her rhythm against the sogged, top surface of beats down the hall.

The green door of my room takes up crying heat from a concrete lot across the way, jet fuel waving through the joy of Latino brothers cooking at their window. Later, through the closed glass, a younger, curly brother is propped up on the dinner table, legs swinging as they joke shirtless.

I make a shower from trashcans of cold water, bathing in odd stages beginning with toes.

Bonny Cassidy