Brooklyn quiet backfire, 

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