Beneath our feet in the coils of carpet
full of dander, paper fibres and pollen,
past the underlay thick as a pinky finger,
the floorboards warped to become musical notes
when stepped on, down
into the foundations
is a pulse. A beat.
A rhythmic tap of a dancer’s shoes,
the drum of fingers on a worktop,
a family getting into a car and shutting the doors
one after another.
When the house is empty,
the beat stops.
A light in the unoccupied spare bedroom switches on.