Ceiling Pounding

I’m coming up the stairs with a heavy plastic basket,

ready to dump the warm sheets out and rest.

But there’s a yellow note, a paper gasket

between my handle and the quiet of my nest.

The guy in 3B hates the way I walk,

the midnight pacing in my heavy leather boots.

He doesn't want to listen or to talk,

he just wants peace down in his dusty roots.

He used a broom to knock against the wood,

I felt the floorboards tremble in my feet.

I’d stop the noise forever if I could,

and keep the silence of the empty street.