Inside my house,
Inside my mind
the lights are on.
The books shift, wanting to be read.
My to-do list stretches, reaching for another ream of paper.
My phone buzzes, chirps, and rattles with impatience.
My cat sinks his claws into my thigh, hungry for attention.
Dear God, it’s like being nibbled to death by ducks.
All this quiet, so I can work.
I push the heavy slider wide,
and step onto the night balcony.
The light rail leaves a station, clanging on its way.
Cars honk, people laughing, cursing, singing, 14 floors below.
Lights shimmer, blink and fuss, directing traffic,
calling for attention.
On the night balcony
all that noise is someone else’s
And I can fade into the stillness,
and be gone.
—Quinn McDonald is a practitioner of poetic healing.