It is rare
For the house to be silent
And rarer to want to hear the noise

The strum of my brother’s Peavey bass,
Always repeating the same three chords
To ‘Walking on the Moon’

The whir of the electric Santa Fe,
That occupies my other brother,
As it does circles around its track

A high-pitched bark
From our four year old bichon
When a stranger passes by

But,
When it is quiet enough
To hear each tick of the clock,

The clack from the keys on the keyboard,
The drip of water against the pipes,
And that faint ringing of nothingness

All I want is for the noise to come back