Afternoon light through the landing window sticks me in the eye while my hooked finger tears open and roughly the envelope—not newly-arrived but having sat in the black mail box boiling like the litter of the brazen bull for how long now, only God knows. I pause at the last step, feet unfirm, as the old letter unfolds once and twice and three times and more down one and two and three flights of stairs out the door and into the beleaguered streets. Hand raised for shade, I begin to read; to read is to wait for word to follow word. (Above me, at the top floor, my machinery chunk-chunk-chunking. New hires helped get it up and running recently—thank God!)
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