The headboard bangs
against the wall in a rhythm syncopated
to floorboards creaking, a backbeat
driving her passionate screams
of jubilee
of raw ecstasy
of primal pleasures.
She’s a one woman gospel choir
praising god more than I've ever heard in church.
Oh, Jesus! Oh, Jesus! Oh, Jesus!
She is filled, but not with Holy Spirit.
Foundations are being tested as knick-knacks
fall off the dresser, a crucifix
crashes to the floor
like it’s the second coming-
at this rate it might even be the third-
and now she speaks in tongues.

And I’m breaking a sweat, mouth parched

but I don’t dare go get a glass of water.
No, I just lay here, listening fervently
as the couple in the apartment next door
**** away into the apocalypse,
too ashamed of my loneliness
to even *******