Through the Thin Wall

The cheap drywall barely breathes.

Just fluorescent hum and dust motes.

Then, a burst. Not a giggle, not a soft titter.

A full-throated, reckless kind of joy.

Like something ripped open, loud and warm.

The kind of sound that makes your own skin prickle,

a phantom chill.

I put my book down. It was a good part.

The glow from my kitchen, a sickly yellow strip

under the door, my only company.

Their joy, it bounced around in there,

a game I don't know the rules for.

Makes me want to scream, or just

press my ear to the plaster,

try to catch the edge of it,

whatever makes a person

sound so undone with happy.

It just keeps going. And going.