Heavy rock guitar strains on a $5 speaker three floors down.
Smogged marijuana smoke clouds drift higher than my neighbors.
Cumin and garlic marinate this entire apartment complex.
Little clacks from this keyboard make my dog’s ears shift.
Russian, African America, Middle Eastern, and me.

The men next door won’t meet my eyes, but the women love me.
We dance in stairwells, shifting from left to right,
singing, “excuse me,” and, “I’m sorry,”
to the tune of our differences don’t matter here
from an album titled If you need anything, let me know.

The woman below me is Mama. She is strong and her laugh carries,
and I’d rather hear her laugh at 3 a.m., then ever listen to her cry.
I know she knows when we fight and I know that she prays for us.

The people here are whole,
but you wouldn’t know it from looking at any of us.
We are broken too,
but with every pitch of music, every puff and drag, every loud conversation,
we are pulling ourselves back together together,
and it feels pretty damn good.