Evening Stow and Wipe

I tucked the tennis ball securely into the collar of an unlaced sneaker by the front doorway. It settled into the canvas hollow without rolling away. Carrying it back from the curb had left a ring of fine street grit along the red base of my microphone stand. I sat flat on the woven floor runner and drew my thumb across the rubber stopper in two firm strokes. A faint, low squeak cut through the dark corridor, then silence settled back in. The day's movement is accounted for. I propped the stand against my knee and let my joints rest.