The Other Side Of The Wall

The memories scald too much, so he
    pulls out boxes of old, faded photos to
         remember a different time, a former life.

when ex-friends did not hide behind
    trees, when unopened mail did not drown
         him, when the radio from cars passing on

the street below was not a mocking
    source of anguish. He wonders what
         to do to strip the voices of their strange

power. A knock on the door and her
    witch-voice demands “are you in there?”
         he knows he must be silent until she has

gone. The sound of footsteps and muttering
    retreat down the hallway. He looks into the
         cracked mirror, howls silently and strips off

his shirt and trousers. He huddles on the floor
    naked in a fetal position his wild eyes narrow
         to make sure no one across the alley can see

into his pounding heart. The phone rings.
    He ignores it. He will be okay, he must
         be okay, he has cold soup in the fridge,

the t.v. still works, he has books to read,
    lots of books. Then he flinches as he hears
         new voices so happy on the other side of

the wall -- the neighbors that he has never
    met. He rocks back-and-forth his bare skin
         turning gooseflesh. He knows he never will.

Brian Yapko is a lawyer whose poems have appeared in multiple publications, including Prometheus Dreaming, Cagibi, Poetica, Grand Little Things, the Society of Classical Poets, Chained Muse, Tempered Runes, Garfield Lake Review, Sparks of Calliope, Abstract Elephant and others. He lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico.