Message from the German Lady

My new apartment. My three books freshly published. One a them's as thick as the Bible or Dante. It's a sort of anthology. Newly delivered. I sit on the mattress, crosslegged, lookin at it. Plus two other nicely published volumes.

I give one to a fellow student in the art studio, a middleaged German lady. With a dedication.

I move into my new apartment. As it is late at night I go to bed. Lyin in bed tryin to sleep...

The German lady lives next door. I hear her enter her flat and begin moving about. Walls must be paper-thin, I seem to be able to hear her every movement.

She turns on the radio, click! Plays it at full volume, the fatuous DJ voice. Now I can hear her breathing, directly behind my head. She must've stood up close to the wall. She whispers, Miiiichael...

Then, in a whisper: Fuck you Michael. Don't you ever hang up my phone again. The message from me is that you can kiss my fucking ass.