Ceiling Hum

The drill starts up again, a low

insistent grind. I pace below.

Sunday morning, seven-oh-five,

another piece of me feels less alive.

The sound vibrates right through the plaster,

making my headache move much faster.

All week, their heavy feet, a stomp,

a jarring rhythm, like a swamp

creature dragging chains. My skull

feels like a drum, and they are dull

to any quiet I might crave,

a sanctuary I can't save.

A tiny crack above my head,

where the sound seems to be fed

directly down, a spider web

of fury, and my patience ebbs.

I wish the ceiling would just give,

and swallow all the noise they live.