i can’t even get to the end
of a line in a stanza of pasolini
i can feel my upstairs neighbor
entering the building two floors down
i can hear the mailbox swing open
it’s sunday and still it swings open
a drunk ass fool checks the mail
2:29am now monday morning and
i know you didn’t go anywhere
so you can’t pull the PATH
PABT LIRR or MNR shit on me

the walls aching from your dinner
my framed photos and things
that i’ve framed always looking crooked
in the mornings no doubt from your attempt
to break each wooden step as you ascend

one day one will break and i’ll hear your fall
i’ll wait as many seconds as there were stairs
to call for help

in some ways though i admit it’s my fault for moving
i’d never be able to hear just one sound
back in manhattan