The Apartment

The Apartment

In the middle of the city’s restless hum
there sits a small three‑storey block, brick on brick,
and within one of its steel‑frame bones there is a hatch,
a narrow door that opens onto my own quiet flat.

An early fog has a way of turning the windows blurred,
so light pours in a soft, diffuse amber, the kettle on the stove,
its whistle crescendoing into the familiar hiss
of a cuppa waiting in a chipped mug, the day's first comfort.

The kitchen is small, a cosy one‑room affair,
a little fridge humming, a counter with garden‑green tiles,
two shelves stacked with my favourite novels,
and a cupboard that holds the secret store of biscuits.

From the front hatch, the world pipes through a sliver:
bus wheels on an iron track, pigeons in flight, a distant siren.
The whispers of rooms next door, a neighbour in the hall,
and the chatter over the tiny, endless TV set that keeps
the evening alive in muted blue.

The bedroom is a sanctuary of wallpaper scars,
thin white walls that remember floods and splashes, and a balcony that drops over the cobbles of the street,
where the rain douses the pavement like a paradoxical lullaby.

Night seeps in, rain whistle‑clean, the city breathes.
I sit by the window, wind a whistle in the old oak tree,
and imagine the stories each resident carries in the stairwell.

So the apartment is more than brick and paint, it is a safe‑house
in which I, my cup of tea, and the city’s endless rhythm co‑exist.
It is my favourite little colony, a place where
the everyday hustle meets the quiet of a humble roof.