The bulb went out over the top of the stair

The bulb went out over the top of the stair,

leaving a pocket of dead, heavy air.

I’m walking the length of the carpeted floor,

feeling my way toward the wood of my door.

It smells like boiled cabbage and twenty years of dust,

of wet winter coats and a slow-spreading rust.

A microwave beeps in 4C, a sharp, tiny cry,

while I’m left in the dark with a lid for an eye.

Twenty feet of nothing but shadows and sound,

where the ghosts of the tenants are easily found.

I fumble for the keyhole, a blind, shaking hand,

in a building I live in but don't understand.