I read The Waste Land on the stairwell

I read The Waste Land on the stairwell sitting for a friend, and it is not true, for I get the feeling that it has just stopped raining and the child’s in bed. The house creaks A cool air drifts in somehow The neighbor’s toilet And the walled dark are the valid sensations. I am not waiting. I am sensing the skin at the back of my neck brace.

12 April 1977