But.
I do live on the downstairs floor, which inevitably has its drawbacks...
So, here is a poem I wrote about it.
Upstairs Neighbor
The neon green numbers on the microwave tick another minute away.
1:10 a.m...1:11 a.m...1:12 a.m....
It begins.
Tuesdays, Mitch makes wine.
His bare feet slimy with grape innards,
he stomps and smashes,
enjoying the feeling of the slick juice
sliding between his toes.
Wednesdays, Mitch conducts a morbidly obese marching band.
Left, right, left, right. Crash, bang, boom.
Tasseled hats and wool jackets form perfectly straight lines
and weave, creating a star, a square, a circle,
spelling out simple words.
Thursdays, Mitch holds a late-night rehearsal.
His Celtic friends lace up black shoes.
Tap tap tap t-tap tap t-tap.
The members of Riverdance need no fancy practice space.
They prepare for their reunion tour on 750 square feet of plush
carpet and tile.
Fridays, Mitch demands private showings of Cirque du Soleil.
Bright pink scarves float from his range hood,
fluorescent lights, the arms of a leather sectional.
Electric blue leotards leap and dance,
performing trapeze tricks from the chandelier,
balancing on a tightrope between the Frigidaire and the bar
stools.
Saturdays, Mitch walks his pet elephant, Daisy,
inside, of course, so as not to cause a ruckus in the
complex.
She gets extra peanuts if she does her jump trick.
Her wrinkled gray skin jiggles
as she rears on her hind legs
and paws at the air.
Sundays and Mondays Mitch needs a break.
His muscles ache and burn.
He climbs into his $15,000 reflexology bed,
snuggles into Egyptian cotton and a down comforter,
and turns the massage vibration to extra high.
Aww isn't she cute??
Have a lovely, quiet night!
