yelling

there was always yelling.
loud pitched voices,
the higher decibels of the young.
seagulls we
were in the small house,
batting our wings
against one
another,
flying towards the table
for crumbs.
always yelling coming from
one of us,
at the top of the stairs,
from the basement,
from outside in,
from someone
about clothes, or toys,
the unasked borrowing
of everything
we possessed,
and the neighbor with his shoe
banging against our
shared wall,
he didn't stand a chance.