Cities Are Lonely Places
Substack poets inspire each other to share their experiences in verse.
Jason McBride's The Lonely Night City poem reminds me of this ancient poem of mine, Watcher, which I dug out of its grave to present today. The situation goes so far back in my history it's like a previous life. You can enjoy Jason's poem here:
In the 1970s, I lived in an apartment carved out of the top floor of a Victorian just a couple of blocks from downtown Salt Lake City. My residency there was before the mad dash development in preparation for the 2002 Winter Olympics, which ignited an upgrade mentality of erasing everything about SLC before that world-class event. That Victorian on First Avenue between State Street and A, next to the Brigham Young cemetery, has been replaced by a six-storey brick apartment complex. Sadly, the closest photo I could find to illustrate this house is the Houston House in Panguitch, Utah. Nothing fancy at all, it was big enough for four small apartments. A smaller house stood behind the main house.
The tenants included a reclusive woman in the neighboring apartment whom I only saw twice in three years, an elderly couple on the street level, a grumpy 30-something man in the basement who complained about "the broad displays herself while sunbathing" on a patch of grass behind the main house, and that same woman and her husband who lived in the smaller house. My apartment had a door that opened to the roof from which I could see the entire Salt Lake Valley and down into the streets of town. I would sit there in the evening enjoying my million-dollar view outside my $90/month walk-up.
Watcher
The wind blows wild up there.
Clouds swirl every-which-way
Like crazed cotton candy.
Maybe it's the commotion below
The unrest of rush hour
That sends them scurrying.
I feel like a god
Up here
Alone each night
On my roof.
I know everything that happens
Below.
I hear gunshots and screams faraway
A woman sobbing in the yard next door
Sirens' doppler whines between buildings
Children singing "No bears are out tonight"
And the fading drone of trains
As they sneak out the backdoor of town.
I can see strollers and night stalkers,
Neighbors sitting on balconies.
The young man studies by the window across the way.
His woman paces behind him,
Her bare feet brushing the faded carpet,
Waiting for him to finish.
I wonder if someone watches me?
Not for long, no doubt.
No sense in watching watchers,
Dabblers in fantasy
Mocking the mainstream
Afraid to wander too far
From a sheltered perch on high
To join the pageant of Life.
Thank you for reading.
It seems that "sounds" is a theme lately. Candace Rose Rardon on Substack's "Dandelion Seeds," just finished a series of poems and illustrations of other's writings for her "Sounds of Home."
We could all use a bit of frantic life downtime by standing still and listening to the sounds around us, especially at night.
Next Monday, I'll be posting another poem about sounds and neighborhood happenings to carry forth this theme.