My building has ten stories,
Sixteen homes
on every floor,
And most of
them have strangers
Who reside
behind each door.
My ninth floor
neighbors smile and we
May chat
while waiting for
An elevator
to arrive;
We have a
nice rapport.
Yet I have
no true friendships
Where I live,
but on that score,
That’s very
common in New York,
Both for the
rich and poor.
Some tenants
have their little quirks
I try hard
to ignore,
Though nothing
really serious
I haven’t
seen before.
My upstairs
neighbors may exceed
What tolerance
I store
Within my
hands-off self
And make me
just a little sore.
For noises
that I can’t explain
And
hammering galore
Disturb the
peace I once enjoyed
And don’t
have anymore.
Of course,
it’s New York City,
Which has
clamor at its core,
But I wish
my upstairs neighbors
Lived on any
other floor.
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