The walls themselves groan with your echoing moans.
Voices like out of tune violas merge into the wailing phones.
As they ring, desperate to be heard above your din,
Even the TV newsreader gets louder, struggling for recognition.
It would be rude to cover my ears,
I am a guest now.
My room smells of your drying laundry.
The titles of my books are no longer readable,
Covered by the white pants turned grey.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool
Image: Viola photo from Wikipedia and labelled ‘free for reuse’.