The Man Upstairs

I’ve learned to hate the man upstairs
Who stamps his feet and slides his chairs
He scrapes and drags and thumps around
My ceilings are his stomping ground

I hear his ire and all his glee
I hear it all, the symphony
His heavy romps throughout the night
And little stomps of wild delight

I think he always wears his clogs
He has about a thousand dogs
Who bark and yowl at every hour
I hear him singing in the shower

Accordion, he plays it well
Though still a novice on cowbell
I live his life, through all his creaks
I’d dream of him if I could sleep

I’d dream of when he tripped and fell
And cursed, got up, and all was well
I’d dream of when he stubbed his toe
A cry, a hop, on with the show

I’d dream of how his voice might sound
Outside this muffled underground
I’d dream of what I cannot see
His favorite chair, his face in glee

I think he cooks for all his friends
And all the things he breaks, he mends
I think he wears a tailored suit
I think he buys a lot of fruit

I think he’s tall and has a limp
I think his hair is rarely clipped
He walks his dogs to sea to swim
I think, more like, his dogs walk him

I wonder where his family lives
And if he’s wronged, if he forgives
I think he fills his walls with art
I think he has a gentle heart

I wonder if I saw his eyes
I wonder if I’d recognize
The same old man I’ve known for years
Who lives above my chandeliers

And what he does when he is still
I cannot say, I never will
Perhaps he reads and sips his tea
Perhaps he writes a poem, of me!

I’ve learned to love the man upstairs
Who stamps his feet and slides his chairs
In stomping skill he has no peers
He clangs like no one else has ears

But now, how could I live without?
I dread the day when he moves out
I will survive, ‘til that day comes
At least he doesn’t play the drums