Plaster and Lath

The radiator stopped its iron banging at noon,

leaving a space where the world leaks in.

I can hear the neighbor hum a tuneless tune,

a sound like wire rubbing against skin.

A heavy book hits the floor on the other side,

a solid thud that travels through the joist.

Then a breath, sharp and long, like he’s tried

to swallow the room or keep his eyes moist.

My glass of water on the nightstand starts to shake,

shivering from the low rumble of his evening news.

It’s a strange kind of company we have to make,

divided by the thin drywall and our quiet views.