THE MAN WHO LIVED UPSTAIRS

THE MAN WHO LIVED UPSTAIRS

Each night at half past two.
I heard him cross the floor.
He walked from left to right.
Then stopped beside my door.

I never saw his face.
I never knew his name.
But every single night.
His footsteps came the same.

I asked the woman next door.
Who lived above my flat.
She stared at me confused.
And would not answer that.

I heard him move a chair.
Then heard a heavy sigh.
Some nights I heard him laugh.
Some nights I heard him cry.

One evening I went up.
To knock upon his door.
The hallway felt so cold.
My feet froze to the floor.

I knocked three little times.
Nobody made a sound.
I tried the old door knob.
And slowly turned it round.

The room was bare and still.
No furniture was there.
Just dusty wooden boards.
And one forgotten chair.

I hurried down the stairs.
And locked my bedroom door.
That night at half past two.
He walked across the floor.

I pulled my blanket high.
And tried to close my eyes.
Then footsteps crossed my room.
Which gave me some surprise.

They stopped beside my bed.
I dared not turn my head.
I whispered, please go home.
I am trying to sleep in bed.

A little voice replied.
I cannot find my key.
I opened up one eye.
To see what I could see.

A tiny old grey man.
Was standing by my chair.
He wore enormous slippers.
And hardly had much hair.

I asked him who he was.
He smiled and scratched his head.
He said, I lived upstairs.
Before I ended dead.

I told him, that is sad.
But must you stomp at two?
He thought about my words.
And said, I suppose that is true.

Now every night is still.
No footsteps cross the floor.
Except on Sunday mornings.
When he hoovers around at four.