This room is for music,
that one for shouting
on the fall down.
That’s how I remember it,
how I tried to keep it
straight. But when I got blurry, 

I may have released
my vocal chords wrong—a coloring
outside the lines. A tiny bird darts in
and out 

of the retro deco
signage above the south-facing front 

door. It’s locked. No more
food. One more night
of music in this room,
shouting in that. Tomorrow
the construction site wrapped thick
with plastic rattling 

a gentle November death
breath will swallow it
whole. And that’s that.