Slamplified

The crack of wood on wood
Reverberating just
A little longer now,
The clutter won't absorb
Our babel anymore.

If I played back the tapes
Of all this room's soundscapes:

Your rustling sketchpad's waltz,
The locksmith's faulty key
Jangling while you sleep,
Guitar strings tuning, snap,
My chatty keyboard's tap,
The cat's claws on the chair,
A Plastic photo's album shear,
A glass of broken beer,
The neighbors' romps upstairs,
Your brush through tangled hair,
The last words spoken here.

A bit of trivia
That I once overheard:
It wasn't relevant
Until, really, tonight --
That "noise" and "nausea"
Derive from the same word

It's as Ironic
As the phrase "family room",
I realize,
Since what really sickens
Is the silence
That pervades
With slammed goodbyes.