August 3, 2016 2:08 pm EDT

White noise, black noise, scores of shades of
grey noise. There’s an abusive quality to the
noise. There’s a stinking and noisome infilling
of tremulous trauma and dirty drama in every
slammed cabinet door, every fork or spoon
not washed well and placed back in the drawer.
And then there’s the boombox, the ghetto blaster
playing old school rock, four notches too high
in the early afternoon. Is it wrong to want to

Type: Poetry

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