by John Grey
The quiet is always on notice.
My roommate calls it out constantly,
bayonets the air with profanity.
My sensibilities don't matter.
He hacks of course. And he sneezes.
And it's always "Hello, it's me,"
louder than a talking head on Fox,
as he screams into the shiny screen
of his telephone.
And he's always restless,
wants to be doing something.
So I tell him, "Then go do it."
But he prefers to stay behind
and burden me with his regrets
that he didn't get it done.
There must be an art to thinking
when you're in the company of the thoughtless.
I've tried everything
but my head just gets pummeled for its troubles.
A loud mouth beats a rational explanation
every time.
There's nothing worse
than an overbearing roommate.
Especially when I live alone.
He's so bombastic
there's never any doubt
that I am him and he is me.
All I want to do is spend
a peaceful night at home.
But, for that to happen,
I'd have to do it without me.
