Apparently I Was In A Mood

I sit staring sullenly, eyes pointed to the left at nothing at all,
waiting for you to interrupt me with some noise —
some footfall or floorboard creak or impotent sigh —
impossibly well-engineered to be the most distracting sound
in the known universe.

My wonderful,
amazing,
life-changing work of art has been unforgivably postponed by
dishes rattling,
chairs squeaking,
and the click beep and whoorm of electronics turning off and on again.

I banish myself to an unused, neglected spare room
stacked floor to ceiling with polycarbonate-smelling boxes of old books,
clothes,
board games,
holiday decorations,
and bits of commuter viscera scoured from cars that have long ago been sold.
I shut the door with firmness – not petulance, not from me,
but solidly, with purpose.

I can hear you enjoying yourself from rooms away;
rattling around in this old house like a marble in a tin can while I,
staring at the noxious duvet cover that was regulated to a guest room
only because it’s yours and it seemed rudely presumptuous to throw it out,
sit in silence surrounded by mismatched furniture,
outdated electronics,
surplus linens,
and three broken irons,

giving the proper respect to great art.