#137

In this place,
a box within a box,
the neighbors aren't faces--
they're voices
televisions
radios.
Our lives are broadcast
through the walls.

To my West is Dorothy,
frustrated daughter.
In the bathroom
on the phone
she talks about her ailing mother.
From my bubble bath
I listen to her raspy voice
Hello? It's Dorothy.
I can't, I'm going to the hospital
again.
She enjoys police dramas
and popcorn.

To the East, Giselle,
a delicate French girl.
She keeps in touch
with instant messenger
practices along
with her English language tapes
and receives exotic parcels
from home
(I see them in her doorway
and feel jealous of the stamps)

I wonder
if Giselle and Dorothy
think of me
as the one who
comes home crying
and moans a different name
every eight weeks,
the one who likes to play
sad love songs
and turns the volume up
til she thinks no one
can hear her sing along.