There are many gods of sleep. Most of ours are Greek.
The old lady and her husband are the gods of twilight sidewalk talking under our window.
Her hollering and him grunting, they lead the neighbours in a chorus gossip-singing
to a tin can transistor radio tune. The next-door gods of midnight swimming
divine cool meaning from the clear waters of their aboveground pool.
Strophe and anti-strophe, their call and answer ricochet.
Echo haunts our alleyway.
saint-urbain The god of a very small dog lives downstairs. Her boyfriend is the god of sports betting.
We pray the Western Conference goes his way. When the Flames lose he hurls thunderbolts
and all night long night Saint-Urbain Street's sirens sing their song.
It's one bacchanal after another on the third floor;
horny he-goats and scantily clad nymphs stomp up and down the stairs.
The guy in the bed above ours thinks he's the god of love but he can only go five minutes.

It seems wrong that our gods anger us more than we anger them > > >
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