City Paper is not for tourists
Earlier this month, my next-door neighbors left a large wooden dresser on the side of the road, directly in line with their front door. The dresser was chipped, too big for my apartment, missing a couple knobs—and free. I hauled it inside. Free shit is free shit.
Several weeks passed.
Yesterday, I left the house to find a filing cabinet positioned where the dresser had been. I approached the cabinet eagerly. I shook it. I lifted it. I opened and closed each drawer. Ultimately, I decided to leave the filing cabinet—I have few files—but I did manage to recover some leftover magnet poetry from the inside of a drawer. (Until now, a single American flag magnet has precariously supported my refrigerator’s small collection of postcards and CVS receipts).
So far, I’ve managed to craft two phrases from it:
hence always ebb like banal space hence always space like banal ebb
Free shit is free shit. But now that I have about a 50-50 chance of determining the magnet poetry phrase with which my next-door neighbors chose to adorn their tax returns, have I gone too far?
There’s no turning back now. Bring it on, next-door neighors: I’m in the market for a new wastebasket. I’d also like an ottoman.