Shared Drywall

I press the cold rim of a water glass

against the wallpaper’s yellowing seam.

The pipes are humming a low, metal mass,

cutting through the middle of a dream.

There’s a rhythmic thud against the wood,

a headboard counting out a steady beat.

I thought it was the start of something good

until the silence turned into defeat.

Then the smell of carbon, sharp and black,

and a voice that’s breaking over a ruined plate.

You can hear the spine of a Tuesday crack

when the dinner and the mood are both too late.