The first day I moved into room number 0
at the Angletree Apartments, often
misconstrued and misspelled as Angeltree.
I climbed the stairs and heard the annoying sound
of children flying and squealing through
the halls above me. "Drat!", I thought,
“Brats in the belfry making a racket!".
W.C. Fields would have been proud of my attitude.
One morning, from an erotic dream
I tumbled into consciousness at the
scream of a woman being beaten by a drunken lover;
nightly, police chased the drug dealers
and cracked porcelain hookers from the corridors.
My neighbor attempted suicide twice,
carted off by frantic medics juggling I.V. bottles
tethered by long plastic tubes.
Last Saturday those kids
were winging their way down the hall again,
screaming and laughing out loud,
what a delicious sound descending from the Angeltree.
End/Michael Bogar
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