something like chekhov

by Justin Hyde

my new efficiency apartment
is like something
out of chekhov,
only there is no consumptive
blue lipped servant
to prepare the samovar
or do something
about all my belongings
in one giant pile
against the wall.
just my next door neighbor roger
(a forty-seven year old schizophrenic)
clanging a cowbell
and shouting
while watching pro wrestling.
he knocked on my door
an hour ago
and invited me over to watch friday night smackdown.
told me
the previous user of this bed
(which smells like superglue)
was deaf.
said he lived here eleven years
died in his sleep.
as i close my eyes
pondering life
in a dead man’s bed
roger throws the cowbell against the wall
and screams something about
corn-fed jews. then
i hear the mousetrap
in my bathroom
for the
third time today.