Ladan Osman

Tonight is a drunk man, his dirty shirt. There is no couple chatting by the recycling bins, offering to help me unload my plastics. There is not even the black and white cat that balances elegantly on the lip of the dumpster. There is only the smell of sour breath. Sweat on the collar of my shirt. A water bottle rolling under a car. Me in my too-small pajama pants stacking juice jugs on neighbors’ juice jugs. I look to see if there is someone drinking on their balcony. I tell myself I will wave.