Quiet, Please

Mostly I wish I could
strain it all like
boiling water
from a pot of spaghetti.

The dog licking his ass,
my daughter brushing knots
from her hair,
husband’s breathing:

Centipedes under my skin
scurrying up my arms,
into my neck and face;
nesting in my ears.

Their hatched babies screeching
in the hallows of my canals.
I claw and dig and scratch,
at the extraneous noise
of everyday life.

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