This was written from the haughty, almost elitist, side of my personality (which has a fake British accent) sort of tongue-in-cheek.
They came with noise:
the chatter and laughter of those
who are very pleased with themselves,
and they were very tickled
(like freshly bathed toddlers
ten minutes from bed time)
thought more so with themselves
than with each other,
strumming and singing
made up songs with silly lyrics
crescendoing with the under-the-table one-upmanship
of ‘friendly’ competition.
They continued their musical wrestling match;
intent upon destroying the beauty that once was
the fragrant flowerbed of silence
I had so lovingly planted
and tended to.
I paid then no mind,
recognizing the hunger of poverty and addiction
and fearing they would violently devour
the entire span of my attention
with the voracity of newly hatched
leaving little of it left for the very personal
self-lathering I had planned for
later (while luxuriating in a bath of the
lovingly labored over silence mentioned earlier).
I did, however, offer up
as I tuned into my inner crescendoing trolley
of thought (it had started out as a train but
was abruptly derailed, and subsequently overturned,
by the inconsiderate sonic equivalent of a grade school
orchestra on helium and sugar
on the morning after a week of binge drinking in Vegas,
having found yourself in bed next to a stripper
two days before your wedding… but I digress).
I turned inward
and continued to read.
One who is truly pleased
with ones’ self
can contently be so