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Abstract

down the stems of my tulips and right through the soil! Through the hole in that pot and the slats of my stoop and into the chair — her precious plastic chair where she never… even… sits.— the shift of the pans in the cabinet — the sprinting of the cat — the flushing of my toilet — the groan of the sliding glass door — the breeze — which blows a speck of dirt that doesn’t belong to me onto the stoop of the home beneath me…The list of my offenses, a growing, steady weight I cannot contain any more than the sunshine that filters through my window.Oh, what shall be done for that party of one who lives in the home beneath me?While I ponder the carpet that’s losing those fresh vacuum lines, and the craft bins I want to drag out a

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nd onto the floor for a bit of fun; I instead, sit in quietude.For I don’t want to disturb or even slightly perturb that incredibly irritable woman who lives in the home beneath me.Oh what can I call this Seuss-like state of the woman below me who thinks I’m an ache? Shall I offer a nod or a wave of my hand to the angry lady who thinks she’s queen of this land?Or take my craft bins to the front stoop and ooops!— spill the glitter?Thanks for reading this silly poem (my first post in this pub!) inspired by the lady who really does live in the apartment below me. <a href="https://readmedium.com/my-downstairs-neighbor-is-ruining-my-new-apartment-d3ab3e1389f7">Here’s a bit about that</a> — if your inquiring mind must know.</article></body>

POETRY

The Home Beneath Me

a free verse poem

The creaks in my floor give me pause.

Perhaps if I tip-toe just so the lady that stirs in the home just below won’t come charging up the stairs to point out my noise and fuss about the water — that dripped dripped

dripped

down the stems of my tulips and right through the soil! Through the hole in that pot and the slats of my stoop and into the chair — her precious plastic chair where she never… even… sits.

— the shift of the pans in the cabinet — the sprinting of the cat — the flushing of my toilet — the groan of the sliding glass door — the breeze — which blows a speck of dirt that doesn’t belong to me onto the stoop of the home beneath me…

The list of my offenses, a growing, steady weight I cannot contain any more than the sunshine that filters through my window.

Oh, what shall be done for that party of one who lives in the home beneath me?

While I ponder the carpet that’s losing those fresh vacuum lines, and the craft bins I want to drag out and onto the floor for a bit of fun; I instead, sit in quietude.

For I don’t want to disturb or even slightly perturb that incredibly irritable woman who lives in the home beneath me.

Oh what can I call this Seuss-like state of the woman below me who thinks I’m an ache? Shall I offer a nod or a wave of my hand to the angry lady who thinks she’s queen of this land?

Or take my craft bins to the front stoop and ooops!

— spill the glitter?

Thanks for reading this silly poem (my first post in this pub!) inspired by the lady who really does live in the apartment below me. Here’s a bit about that — if your inquiring mind must know.