Bombardment.
Sounds everywhere, blinding, deafening.
Floorboards creak and the walls hum
and the machinary whirs and insects,
even the insects tap.
Away, the family are occupied.
Brother, I hear his eyes mlide from side to side
the pages turning.
Father, near to the hum of the computer
Mouse clicks like thunderclaps.
Mother, near the TV and the drumbeat
of her favourite soap.
And I, on a soft floor of creaking springs
with a book in one hand
and an overactive imagination in the other.