The Bathroom Light

There is a light that can be seen
through the window in my bathroom
when the down the hall neighbor
turns hers on.
Each of our windows look out into
this shaft between apartments
with a skylight at the top. I don’t know what else
is in there. I don’t know who built it.
The glass is not clean. It’s textured
so all you see through there is light or darkness.
I’ve seen that light go on
many times in fact when I did not expect
a light to go on at all.
One night I wake up and the clock says
four thirty-four. I go to the kitchen for
a drink of water. The cat emerges from
somewhere unknown and greets me.
Stands in the orange
triangle of light from the refrigerator. She’s
as confused as I am as to why we’re up.
When I’m done, go back to the bedroom
and see my sleeping girlfriend
with one leg out and her mouth open.
I imagine her sleeping alone. I imagine
I do not exist anymore. Lower myself into
my now cold side of the bed. The ceiling fan
roars down at us like the blade of a guillotine.
The smoke alarm’s test light flashes
green as is expected. I replay the argument
we had about hotels. Rehearse it for a follow up.
In blows the night—strangely indifferent.
Cooler than the previous week. “Broke”
as they say about the heat. The room also
seems larger in the dark, a large purple box, which is
I’m not sure how it should be. Shouldn’t it be
smaller, cozier? The cat slinks under the bed.
We’ve got ants. Cold cuts in the car still.
I’ll have to throw them out. Saw a pigeon
get run over by a bicycle. It seemed almost impossible.
The man on the bike wearing a red
backwards baseball cap that simply read, “shit”
in white letters.