underneath the floor
there is silence
except for my art
as I drag the sofa
back and forth
to make room
for the play area
or to eat while watching a movie
above the ceiling
its a mediocre play
no rhythm, no beats
tolerable beyond its rarity
sometimes voices
mostly from the TV
given the timing on the daily
behind the walls, more of the same
no passionate banging
no cries of ecstasy
except whatever resonates from my own
about once year
the one party now quiet
as families and routines
settled in
there is less and less room
for us all
including the sound
that once must have roared
in this building ten
when the young could afford
the future on a credit hold