The laundry basket is digging into my hip

The laundry basket is digging into my hip,

plastic handles groaning under the weight of wet towels.

I pass the couple in khakis in the hallway,

smelling their credit scores and their new-car luck.

The landlord is showing them 4B, the unit where the guy

used to play jazz records until the drywall hummed.

He moved out in a night, leaving nothing behind

but the dust and a sense of stolen time.

I look through the open door and see the ghost—

a pale, clean rectangle where his clock used to be.

I’ve lived here three years and still haven't asked

if I’m allowed to drive a single nail into the wall.