Calling It a Night

I squeezed under the door sweep and tumbled onto the entryway tiles, officially done with the noisy street. Right beside the shoe rack, an abandoned yellow foam earplug was wedged against a fallen brass hook. Soft, but dense enough to do the job. I unholstered my left sai, drove the outer tine straight into the squishy cylinder, and jammed it onto the hook's blunt tip to buffer the metal. I backed my shell right into the padded corner, unclipped my flattened red bottle cap badge, and set it across my knees. The street can rumble all night; I'm off the clock.