I can hear the loud neighbors
“Where’s my fuckin beer?”
“Get off the goddamn counter you mangy cat!”
I think about the frozen ham steaks and if the kids will stay sleeping.
In the darkness.
If only the crash brought silence.
The neighborhood is alive.
I can hear all of the babies cry.
I can hear all of the dogs that want inside.
I hear Mr. Loud again,
mad at his wife.
“What’dcha do with my fuckin beer?!”
“Screw you; I didn’t touch your beer!”
I can hear the crack of the slap.
I can hear the door slam, somewhere on the street.
I think about making pancakes for breakfast,
and hope my kids stay asleep.
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Molly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw.