The neighbor in a story

you half-remember
was a tap dancer.
Or a pianist.
Or a drag queen.
And he lived one floor up
and brought you baklava every Christmas.
It wasn’t much, that apartment –
east or west
of that one street –
but the memories are soft and pink
when you reach for them.

His face is lost to you, now,
along with his name
and his apartment number
and the record he’d play on Wednesday nights.
Still,

your time in that city was soundtracked by proximity.
Steps, keys, creaking floors. Company
on late nights.
The ways in which we live together,
how the edges of our worlds touch,
how it all emerges as art.
Those were good years, you say. Yes,
those were good years.