The Ceiling

I’m sitting on the edge of the bed.

The room is quiet now, but the bass

is still a pulse behind my eyes.

In the basement, the humidity

was heavy as a wet blanket.

I was staring at the low ceiling

where the black paint was peeling.

A girl in a thrifted cardigan

asked if I was the singer’s father.

I told her I used to come here

to get my radiator flushed.

I stepped out into the mist.

The sweat on the back of my neck

went cold as a freezer shelf.