Outside in the street
the dense chunk
of a slammed door.
A hard, confident summons:
“Hey pendejo –”
followed by
two men speaking
I can’t really hear. Then,
the first voice again —
“you never know.
When it comes,
it comes.”
I turn off the light.
When it comes,
it comes. I live that way too,
waiting for it.
But outside —
nothing more. Whenever it comes,
it seems,
won’t be
tonight.
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Dark Matter 
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