Hemmed In

Above, the divorcee 
with the baggy eyes and bleached hair
draws an evening bath. 
The dull pat of bare feet 
and the rush of piped water 
ring through the elderly walls; 
the light suspended from my ceiling 
swings right, then left 
like a pendulum. 

The magpie laughter 
of three generic teenagers 
reverberates down the hall, 
amplified by the echo. 
That would be apartment 8, 
whose door is perpetually open 
and whose inhabitants keep no secrets.
Those who pass going up or down 
just serve as extras on the set. 

The television of the deaf landlady 
begins to play an aggressive version 
of the “Star-Spangled Banner.” 
I lie in my bed waiting for the static to start.
As usual, my consciousness slips, 
and I jump at the sudden 
shift from music to chaos.

In number 10, there is silence 
though it is that pregnant quiet
which expects to birth the rattle
of keys at 2:00 a.m. when the bars close.
Red-eyed and blurry he’ll try 
every key twice before one works.
But the interruption will be brief.
He’ll pass out before he has a chance
to shed the day’s smell and dirt. 

Below, Thursday’s garbage 
goes crashing onto the street 
as two curs quarrel territory. 
The bastard on the first floor 
peppers his trash with rat poison.
I imagine a hungry bag lady 
then, roll over dreaming 
of the vacant apartment below.