Boom Box Theory

Every evening, 11 PM, we

Hear him pull through thealleyway

Headed to what must be thesolace of

Hearth and home at the end ofhis day.

Not that the engine of hisTracker is

A loud unmuffled roar;

Not that the potholes in thealley scream

Of rattles bottomed out;

Not that he's greeted at hisdoor by

Loved ones gladly welcominghis

Tired bones to a weary rest

After an arduous evening out.

How do we know our neighboris home

Just as our sleep time issettling in?

"Boom-ba da boom-ba daboom, boom, boom"

Our walls quake with thedeafening din.

How can he stand it?

What evil demon possesses hisspirit...

Rules over his mind?

Piercing his ears to themarrow of bone,

Leaving all semblance oflogic behind,

Filling his head like a hornof plenty...

He'll probably be deaf by thetime he is twenty.