It's probably poetry week somewhere at a library in the Midwest, so in celebration, here's the poem my upstairs neighbor might have written to me.
A Poem To My Downstairs Neighbor, If I Wrote One
Why must you dry your hair, at 8 a.m.?
Which is the middle of the night.
Practically.
They make silencers for hair dryers.
I think you should buy one.
A nice one.
Or just go for a bike ride.
Why must you laugh, ever?
Your laugh is so very shrill.
Stop hanging out with funny people,
Or better yet, stop laughing
at your
own
jokes.
So loudly.
Why must you cook with garlic?
Please stop.
Why must you listen to that CD again?
Get an iPod.
And press shuffle.
When is your sub-let over?
The end.
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