Good Neighbor Policy

Eleven weeks I talked myself out of it—

one shoe falling somewhere above my head

at two, two-fifteen, once near three.

Could be anything. Could be

a person who lives badly,

which isn't my call.

Tuesday I wrote it out by hand,

notebook paper, folded it three times,

walked to the end of the hall in my socks,

and fed it under the landlord's door.

The hallway was quiet after.

Then through the ceiling—

before I'd turned to go back—

he laughed at something.

A show. A text. Whatever.

The private laughter of someone

in their own apartment,

who doesn't know

I am standing in the hall in my socks

deciding what kind of person I am now.