I was woken from my sleep again by shouting from next door.
“Wake up!” she yelled. “Get up!” she screamed. “You’re no good any more.”
The last people I lived next to were kindly, gentle folk.
The most I really overheard was Sunday evening’s poke.
I lived above an old man once whose legs were amputated.
His daughter stayed there, smoked a lot, he sleep-talked while sedated.
Considering in abstract all the ways we intersect,
The bits of life we hear and share, the private sound’s effect –
I wonder if in quiet times they can hear me through the wall,
And if I seem a happy chap, or make no sound at all.