pushing and cracking
I like night, mostly. As neighbors and citizens go to sleep, one by one, they leave me with the quiet.I like to listen to ordinary sounds when it is that quiet, like the flick of a lighter. It's a scrape, then a crackling and a thump, and the raspy sound of gas escaping.
On the porch at a friend's there is a beam stretching over open space, supporting the roof. I like to plant myself under it and push up on it. The roof cracks and groans in protest, but it moves, almost imperceptibly.
It's a small symphony of cracks and a losing battle between man and architecture, but I'm still Samson for the fleeting moment before I get tired and my back hurts.
Sometimes I just smoke my cigarette and look at the fingerprints I have left on the beam. They are a dusty portrayal of a pyrrhic victory. I won the cracks and groans, but the beam and the roof still stand.
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