Once

I was sorting the mail I'd put off—

two weeks of it, spread on the table.

Statement, circular, bill, one thing

I set aside as probably able

to wait. Then through the wall,

one laugh. Sharp and already gone.

I put the mail down and sat still

and waited for another one.

Nothing.

Whatever was next door—

whoever found it funny, what room—

it came once and then no more.

I picked the mail back up.

Recycled most of it. The wall

stayed quiet. I finished the pile.

Sat there a while after. That's all.

One ear still on the wall.

The apartment next door, just there.

I went to bed.

Still listening, kind of. Still half aware.