The wall's got a pulse not mine

The wall's got a pulse, not mine,

some stranger's slow, insistent drum.

It travels through the plaster, a low hum,

just enough to make a cheap glass whine.

Two AM, the kitchen window shook,

a loose pane in its frame. For goodness sake,

this building sighs, it groans, a weary ache,

trying to hold apart what others took.

That water glass, on the counter, still,

it shimmers, a tremor against its will.

A silent, useless protest. Just the thrill

of distant rhythm. It won't ever fill

my quiet.