Boom Box Theory

Every evening, 11 PM, we
Hear him pull through the alleyway
Headed to what must be the solace of
Hearth and home at the end of his day.
Not that the engine of his Tracker is
A loud unmuffled roar;
Not that the potholes in the alley scream
Of rattles bottomed out;
Not that he's greeted at his door by
Loved ones gladly welcoming his
Tired bones to a weary rest
After an arduous evening out.
How do we know our neighbor is home
Just as our sleep time is settling in?
"Boom-ba da boom-ba da boom, boom, boom"
Our walls quake with the deafening din.
How can he stand it?
What evil demon possesses his spirit...
Rules over his mind?
Piercing his ears to the marrow of bone,
Leaving all semblance of logic behind,
Filling his head like a horn of plenty...
He'll probably be deaf by the time he is twenty.

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