by David Peak
the people downstairs, they
make the music of moving furniture.
loud sighs like the legs of tables
scraping sunken wood floors.
we listen to them. lying in our bed.
you, nestled in the crook of my arm,
sighing, the radiator hissing. the snow,
outside falling. night time radios
tuned to the stations in between
the stations, sounding like all the comfort
we know.
all the comfort to be had, to be kept.
our distractions so focused. not on us,
but on the people downstairs. the people
we’ve never met, never wanted to meet.
