The Ceiling is Paper

In 4B they are moving the ghosts around,

dragging a dresser or a heavy oak bed.

It’s a grinding, relentless, and wooden sound

that vibrates through everything over my head.

The ceiling fan wobbles its unsteady beat,

shaking the dust from the popcorn finish.

I can feel the frustration in my hands and my feet

as the hope for a quiet night starts to diminish.

I’m holding a broom with the bristles turned up,

watching the water tremble in the glass on the stand.

It’s hard to stay small when the world is erupt-

ing just inches away from the reach of your hand.