A Letter to my Parents

You're angry again, I can tell.
Slience drips like muzzled rain,
too disgusted to fall whole.

I have learned to read pitch perfect
tones, scaled arpeggios, orchestral scores,
that strike chords of nothing.

Seeping misery percolates through
the breeze block bedroom wall.
Gazing at the blind ceiling I wonder
who offended who?
Now, frustrated rage
filters through-- one voice raised,
the weeping other discrete in it's crescendo.

Resolution waits for other rainy nights.

This isn't actually about my parents, more about the discussions and arguments that couples have and my own wondering about how much of our parents lives on in us, in those arguments. These kind of conversations always seem difficult to record or recreate, because if you were to record them, they probably wouldn't make much sense anyway, due to the circularity of most conversations.