Kilburn Towers

As Gibb fumbled to loop the electrical cord around his neck over the light fixture, the note on the radiator was swept out the window to the wintry streets below. With a final look down upon the city, Gibb shrugged and continued the task at hand.

The wayward scrap alit briefly in the open guitar case of a blues player on Chestnut before jumping and landing in an ice-melt puddle on Avenue B. Spring street sweepers pushed it along; it wormed into a heap in the Chester landfill, then found its way to a wave of detritus shoveled onto a barge.

Summer ocean breezes tossed it back into the city and fall storm drafts lifted it into an office window in the garment district, to the desk of a young lady who stares at an empty cubicle and wonders whatever happened to that guy Gibb who used to sit there.