ill-overheard

one am, noise of something spreading in the hallway

the run of carpet in my peephole is invisible beneath wadded newspaper, debris

two boys push an overturned bench through, in the posture of football drills, as if a snow plow

they say, that's all from my stuff

they say, that's a lot of paper

the next morning smells of mildew & ink, and the carpet is marbled with once-hygenic sundries -- band-aids, dental floss, razor blades -- like a dirtied ice slower to melt

two am, the girl in the next apartment is yelling in korean, on the phone i think, she tries it awhile then settles for sobbing or laughter, depending on the night and other complexities muffled by the walls i guess

three am, policemen are beating their fists on a door, PARTY'S OVER and WE'RE NOT ARRESTING YOU