That unexpected but familiar sound
of glass bottles breaking 
on the street that dead ends behind my house.

Someone owns a paintball gun
and shoots from inside some apartment
at empty forties set up on a junk car

which at one time was blue
but now is mottled pink and red
on one side.

I have watched and been unable to decide
which floor of which three decker 
he or she is shooting from.  

At this point, I’ve lost most interest.
The firing range is over there.  I’m
over here.  I don’t like being awakened.

That’s about it.  Not my land,
not that fearful a firearm, not my car.
Not my business.  Welcome 

to the city of picking your battles,
closing your eyes, covering your ears,
getting by.