Every Sunday as I take out my trash, following the path demarcated by two story high walls of molded ACs through my back alley, I hear them rant, spit flecks sprinkling the pavement occasional and wet as October snow.

One night I hear them clear, the nights freezing over and the wind’s at rest, they make a crass joke about white dudes in suits and call political donations the new tithe and three sentences later I’ve heard shit else and I’ve sweat through my jeans and pawed at my wallet and we’re a few drinks away from the revolution.

But the window is too high for me to climb, the back gate locked, and how am I to know which side of this building is odd numbered?

I’d kneel on the basement sill were it not for the cage. I’d get a library card if building plans were public record. I make a Zillow account and suss out their probable unit and once someone’s buzzed me inside sit listening to preamble articulated in clinks, steam, and passionate swear words though the door, warm, waiting.