The garage door grinds at six AM

The garage door grinds at six AM,

metal slats rising in the dark,

and I'm awake before my alarm can mark

the hour. Tuesday, Wednesday, stem

to stern, the same routine—

a sound I've learned to recognize,

to dread, to hear even when

the earplugs block the world.

I don't know what he's doing in there,

what machine runs and stops,

what he's building or fixing or drops

on concrete. I've tried not to care

but the vibration moves through my wall,

through my bed, through the thin

layer of sleep I've managed. Thin

as paper. The door will fall

again at 6:47, closing

whatever it is he's kept hidden.

I stood at my window one morning, stiffened

against the cold, waiting for the unfolding—

to see what emerges, what proof.

A man in a t-shirt, yawning.

He looked tired. He looked human.

He didn't look like he was stealing

my sleep, though he was.