The Woman Next Door

There's a song that plays from an unknown source
and that merges with the Carnival-esque music
that heralds the next period (one of 12 or 13
in the day).

It bubbles up from the cubicle next to mine
and subtlely winds its way into my cerebellum,
causing me to slump and jerk in my green
upholstered rolling chair.

Sometimes, after I walk and bus and walk
once more and finally settle into my stain-free
sheets I can still hear the prancing tune-as relentless
as a Korean mother, telling you to eat your kimchi.