i live in little somalia.

nobody i know calls it that
but the african girls at work tell me:
oh, yeah,
that's where all the somalis live;
don't mess with the somalis -
they're crazy.

i have no intention of messing with somalis
not because i don't like them
but because whenever i pass them on the street
they look through me like i was glass,
or just a cloud of insignificant and odorless gas -
not even an obstacle on the sidewalk.

i live in a little apartment
in little somalia
with alex,
who thinks it's a big apartment
because he grew up in russia
in a tiny studio with more people
than can fit in the party room at phillipe's.

i'm sitting in a little apartment in little somalia
at a ridiculously long table
that alex found along the side of the road one day
and now takes up most of the living room.

i'm sitting and listening to alex speaking russian on the phone
while i eat my lunch.
alex sleeps half the day away
then stays up all night
watching documentaries about the pyramids
and the end of the world
and conspiracies
and 'the problem with america',
which is his favorite subject.

he calls me 'masha'
which he says is 'maria' in russian
and he calls my cat that, too.
he hoards canned foods
just in case.

i'm eating my lunch
in a little apartment in little somalia
and wondering if alex is right
and wondering whether the end is near
and wondering whether i want to spend my last days
in a little apartment in little somalia.

04/11/2010

Posted on 04/11/2010
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