Off-Beat

The people upstairs are throwing

something heavy.

It sounds like a bowling ball

wrapped in a duvet.

I should be angry,

but the microwave is humming

a flat, steady B-flat

and the lasagna is spinning

under the yellow light.

I do a little shuffle

in my wool socks,

the kind that makes a high,

unhappy squeak on the linoleum.

I swing my arms too wide

and my hip clips the fridge handle,

but I don't stop.

I’m a terrible machine

shaking itself apart

before the timer dings.