My apartment is in the basement
of an old row home in Baltimore.

Sometimes it’s really cozy–
brick walls and fake fireplaces,
kitchen in the living room.

Other times it feels like a dungeon–
sunlight-less and fruit flies,
cement under the carpet.

It’s all usually okay,
unless my neighbors sit on the stoop
outside of my only bedroom window
and talk from 5 p.m. to 10 p.m.

And I really just want to yell out,
Hey! I’m trying to live down here!



we sat on the train backwards
you started laughing, making me laugh,
and I thought I was going to throw up
as the trees rushed by the windows–
back to front.


My words fall on deaf ears
and my voice just bounces back
off of brick walls.
My voice comes back to haunt me.
These words I threw so easily
at you, can’t find a way
to break into your skull,
the ears you so willingly
closed when you heard me approaching
time after time after time.
What will I be left with,
after you leave me?

Who will I have to care
about whether or not
I make it home at night
or wake up in the morning?

Who will listen to me
when I don’t know what to say.
I have to say, this has become
a repeating topic on those
nights when I lay in bed
at night, when I am trying
to talk to God, trying to
listen to God talk back.
Who will listen if your
ears can’t hear me anymore?