To Live is to Watch

After The Flower Collectors

The bad dreams come
almost nightly.

Water, always water.
Always some nameless
large entity overtaking us
and pulling us into its
wrath.

I see her in the neighbors
that pass beneath my balcony.

The priest tries to save
his flock. The priest empties
them through confession,
refilling them with grace.

I wish there was
grace enough for me.

*

There is no lift in my building. I roll
around these rooms day in and day
out. Sleep catches me off guard
before I’m ready: painkillers, necessary
but tiring, live on my desk next to

a phone I barely use. A sketchbook
I checkered when I was in the force, now
mostly empty. Pills for the hurt;
cigarettes for the boredom. I eat
my meals where I read my news where
I watch my life go by.

*

Lola and the waiter are fucking.
The police took Lola away and
beat the waiter down inside
the apartment on top of
the cabaret. This isn’t how
you do things.

This isn’t how we did things.

*

Melinda is gone. I don’t know
where she went, but she took

my hope with her. I spend my days
in this apartment, looking out

over the plaza. These people
are my home. The chaos

of their lives keeps me
entertained, keeps me knowing

that there are things outside my
experience that I have yet to discover.

*

I watch.

I am always watching.

Extra Lives is a monthly videogame poetry and prose column by Rachel Tanner.