A collection of rooftops with cops passing by and mountains in the background. The cat tries again, and fails to get into the cupboard under the kitchen sink. I hear the slam but barely glance. Instead I start writing. The radiators in my old building appear to have been turned off for the season. Wind whistles through the empty pipes. It is not warm enough yet to have no heat, but it’s not cold enough to complain to the authorities. It’s unlikely they would even care here in my ramshackle Western Massachusetts city.
The place was once filled with millionaires. More than any other in the area or the country or some such historical fact like that. Not now. Now it is a city whose purpose is long ago passed away. Crumbling buildings and rotten infrastructure.
It’s not dead though. Not by a long shot. There are still people here. People who live their whole lives here. Or some of it. Who call this home.
This collection of rooftops with cops passing by and mountains in the background.