Eleven

Last autumn I was throwing out the beer cans
as my new neighbours' lives spilled onto the street.
Gregg with three gs and Ruth. Since then we've all been

circling round decibels like mad engineers,
testing noise levels - armed with soft sound meters -
of boiled egg hammerings, tantric sex, despair.

Dolby-level playings of 'Darkness' have failed
to snuff out their muffled rows. That hour before
Christmas. Valentine's Day. Tuesday night. Today.

The flat soaks up their curses and crude cries which
seep out as damp spots on my ceilings and walls.
My plaster work is beginning to crumble.

When the Great Fire fizzed through our building last month
Ruth screamed at the blazing chasm in her floor-
boards. Lucifer's gaping mouth slavering for

the Helsinki short break; Plasma; 4x4.
The pong of premonition clings to the paint.
Insurance can't replace Ruth's singed wedding skirt

or the lucky green corset stitched in Ireland.
Her white marriage stockings: permanently charred.
I brew Ruth some tea. One sugar. Not too sweet.