Apartment Buildings

Headlights paint themselves

across the ceiling

like scattering deer.

Scattering my thoughts

in the floating between

sleep and wakefulness.

Broken beams sweep the

room like ghosts

all night,

all night

disembodied neighbors

coming home from

far away

or down the street,

or the back alleys of downtown.

Their footsteps coming up heavy in the hallway.

The elevator chimes 

into small hours,

and I lie awake

in sweat.

All of the secret lives

going on beyond papery walls

so close I could touch them

but don't.

Translucent souls

walking the worn carpet

whose names I'll never know,

but call neighbors.

Do they come in

with smokes, or brown-bagged bottles.

Girls or groceries?

I only lie in the twin bed

beneath the window

of the fifth floor.

Night music

until at last

all sleeps,

or at least, is quiet.

No more tracks of headlights over my head,

no more chimes or lumbering rhythms.

A cat yowls in the alley with the garbage cans

but my neighbors are home

and tucked in their own nooks

and niches,

and we sleep,

breathing collectively.