Thump

The bass is a pulse in the soles of my feet,

a muffled, aggressive, and digital beat.

It’s been three hours of the same looping track

and I feel the tension start up in my back.

I look at my phone and I pull up the name

of the man who owns this entire brick frame.

One little tap and the trouble begins,

a tally of all of my neighborly sins.

My grandmother’s photo is shaking its glass,

clattering softly as the low frequencies pass.

I’m becoming the person who calls in the law

over a crack in the silence’s jaw.