The Sheetrock Filter

I’ve convinced the kettle to be quiet, finally,

and the fridge has stopped its low, metallic thrum.

I was doing fine with the stillness, or mostly,

until the neighbor started in with his thumb

against a wooden peg. Thump. Thump. A dresser,

maybe, or a shelf he’ll fill with things he likes.

He’s humming a tune that’s wrong, a little lesser

than the real song, full of flat notes and spikes.

My framed print of the harbor—the one you gave me—

is shivering against the paint. It’s a rhythmic tap,

a small, gray vibration that’s starting to shave me

down to the nerve. I’m caught in the gap

between his new furniture and my empty chair.

He’s building a life on the other side of the dust,

while I’m just listening to the drywall air,

waiting for the next hammer blow to adjust.