As I sit down to write this prompt, I can hear the hum of my neighbor’s music through the wall. I’m not annoyed—I like almost catching what it is. My window is open, and with the sound of ambient noise (cars, voices, dogs barking, the rustling of August wind through the trees), I can also hear this indiscernible humming. Bass. Drums. Something.
© 2024 Tyler Mills, Brooklyn Poetry Studio
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