Water Never Stops Moving

The tarp on the house down the street sounds like I live on a beachfront, but I live much more modestly than that. It is late September and the windows are still open due to the lady in the lower apartment jacking her heat up for the sake of her cats.

The tarp is cerulean blue, like water, and it hangs vertically, like a fall. It crashes against the house incessantly.

I wonder what it feels like for the owners of that house to live under an unfinished roof, a promise for the winter. I wonder if it leaks, possibly a bedroom, and the occupant of said room woke up wet, and ultimately disappointed.

The plastic water is now wavering against the neighboring house. I stand, by the window and try to imagine how the tarp would feel against my skin, stroking my body, splashing my face.

I wonder if the neighbors mind the sound, being so close. It is late, but water never stops moving.

Weeks later, the tarp is still alive, and now the city has began construction on the intersection that sits between it and my apartment. I think the construction has something to do with pipes, water. I?ve seen the massive hole during the day, but at night, there is a large metal sheet they put over the hole so traffic can resume. When cars pass over it, the sound is undeniable. Though it is loud, it reminds me of boats bumping against docks.

And the vehicles in this neighborhood are quite noisy. It might be due to the fact that the duplex I live in is quite old, and the windows aren?t exactly the best, but the motors and mufflers of the cars that scoot through the intersection remind me of jet skis.

This is my soundscape. Endless waves, boats nestling, and engines crackling. All of this 15 minutes from Lake Michigan.