Bad Poetry For Tuesday

2 Dec

The voice it swells
the things it tells
the swelling, telling voice; it yells!

From in the back
the mind can’t track
this boorish man on the attack!

The sound, it grates,
Ire elevates
the details he must share can’t wait!

His power bill
he yells it still
to parties quite invisible;

The state of rent!
Where Monday went!
No detail not relayed, not sent!

Though as we must,
We share this bus,
It’s like he does not notice us!

A stifled groan,
I’m almost home,
away from his blasted mobile phone.

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