Partition

The stranger in 3 is falling apart,

a wet, rhythmic heaving against the door.

It’s the kind of sound that stops your heart

and makes you look down at the tile floor.

I’m tracing the ‘SR’ scratched in the paint,

waiting for the rattle of the paper roll.

The air in here is heavy and faint,

with a grief that’s finally lost control.

I want to say something, but what is the use?

We’re separated by an inch of gray steel.

There’s no polite way to tie the noose

or tell a ghost how they ought to feel.