ragtime raze the architecture is impossible but incontrovertible. a door leads from my bedroom to a hallway where a crawlspace was before. another door opens to an attic. two people have been squatting here. they have a couch and a chair. a tv and a radio. no bed to sleep on. the only light available to them is what leaks in through a casement window. they could be lovers. they could be brother and sister, or strangers who look similar enough to pass for siblings. they don't tell me their names. i don't tell them mine. i can see the fear in their eyes. i stare at the chipped paint on the ceiling and say, "i should have fixed that a long time ago." i ask if they're hungry. thirsty. i lead them to the kitchen. the man holds fine china tight to his chest, terrified of breaking something priceless. nothing is relinquished from his grip. in the cramped confines of their stolen home, i ask if they've heard me doing anything around the house. the woman says she could make out the sound of a piano being played once. that's all. "i don't know how anyone can play ragtime," she says. i want to tell her the syncopated rhythm is the key, but i'm too tired to explain anything just_now. so we sit and say nothing, stewing in a sadness of our own making. 240823 what's it to you? who go blather from