The
Crumminess of the Neighbors
At night, they lift up the carpets
and stomp around in their mega-ton boots.
There are ten or twelve of them up there—
neighbors from a different planet, an evil planet.
Sometimes, during the day,
they spoon liquid into the crevices of the floor
so we come home to mysterious leaks and puddles.
Their phone rings through the bass of their loud music:
boom boom ring! boom boom ring!
At three a.m., they have sex
just to bother us, and scream their sexual screams.
(We think they might be faking it.)
Is there anything else they do? Oh yes.
They set their clock alarms for two a.m, five a.m.,
and for any time we are napping.
It can go on for hours: beep beep beep beep beep...
They play their electric guitars
as loud as they can, songs we don't like.
They have inane conversations at the top of their lungs:
discuss whether bread has a taste, or who is gay.
And the coughing! All night, the coughing.
Or wait, the coughing may come from this apartment.
My brain is too addled from lack of sleep.
I do know they lack consideration.
They give parties and invite even the police,
but not us, never us.