Cookout Blues

A song is playing loudly
in the neighborhood, a song
you can’t stand hearing,
another person’s favorite song.

You worship at the altar of curation.
You can’t fathom why
they can’t use earbuds
to keep their atrocious taste to themselves,

dammit. This is America. You have
the right to be unbothered by
the presence of others. You have the right
not to find out who is who

through their music. Their food smells
good, though. If it were over here
you’d try it. But the music — the music’s
all wrong. It ought to be unheard,

and while we’re at it, they’re pretty loud
themselves. Too loud. This is America.
You have the right to call someone
and get them to do something about this.

You have the right not to know
one damn thing about the people
who lives up the damn block.
That’s why you bought the earbuds

in the first place. That’s the whole point
of a curated playlist. That’s the reason they invented
noise cancellation. You have the right
never to hear another voice as long as you live.