The Complaint

The note was typed in careful rage.

Three sentences, each one precise.

Not yelling. Just making a record, a page

of evidence, worded so nice.

"I appreciate your music's appeal,

but after eleven I cannot rest.

Your consideration would be ideal.

I'd be grateful if you'd do your best."

I'm reading between every word,

reading the formality that masks

her fury. Reading every detail heard.

The way she's done with me, with all tasks.

She's right. The music was too loud.

It was late. I was desperate to feel.

I turned it up for the crowd

of nothing inside me. Something real.

But now I hear her silence through the wall,

the space between her rage and grace,

the fact that she said nothing at all

except this careful, polite case.

I'll turn it down. But now I know

she's there. She's listening. She'll keep score.

Now I'm not alone. Now the undertow

of her restraint lives just next door.