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There’s a child in the yard, its shoes flash every time it takes a step   It carefully places one foot in front of the other until it comes to a stop in front of me It looks up, nose streaming, and says: Last night I dreamt that I insulted everyone   I turn off onto the gravel path without looking back and the kid crows a barrage of abuse after me   A bird is sitting on the washing line chirping and rolling a hempseed in its beak The springtime sun shines straight in my face   The door to the building is open   My room is just as I’d left it Rumpled bedclothes on the mattress, crooked piles of books, empty clothes hangers in the open wardrobe It smells funny, I open the window A draught whirls tiny feathers out of the birdcage onto the table, over the cast iron teapot and my father’s typewriter I run my finger through the dust on the keys, press, the little foot jumps up to the ribbon and back down again I pull the typewriter to the edge of the table, my fingertips rest expectantly on the keys; I’ve already thought it all through on my way here   I’m getting hot I impatiently shake my coat from my shoulders, stand up, and hang it on the hook What did I want to do? I wander restlessly around the room, go from the window to the door, from the door to the bed, from the bed to the table I pick up things: a chewed pencil, a tarnished silver spoon, a crumpled pack of cigarettes, a matchbox with a picture of a half-naked roller-skating sailoress on it I push the table over to the window, fumble a cigarette out of the pack, straighten it out and light up; the smoke goes straight in my eyes Down in the street I see the kid with the flashing shoes It’s tugging stubbornly on a blooming gorse bush A branch breaks off, the kid tentatively hits it against its leg, then whips the bush; the blossom sprays, the kid shrieks wildly     The sun has crawled