My neighbors got a karaoke machine.
It spews bright orange and blue patterns around their fences,
our fences.
And there's a disco ball
whose glitter is filtering through their windows,
our windows.
I wouldn't mind so much
if the karaoke machine was quiet,
so perhaps the next town over couldn't hear it.
And I wouldn't mind so much
if the neon lights stayed inside their yard,
and perhaps if their voices were more
in key,
any key, really.
It'd be nice if Aunt Marcy hit a note for once
because she's hitting notes I've never heard of before.
Their tone sounds more like robot cat baboons
that were dunked in water and then given a megaphone.
The machine itself is so unassuming,
a plain white square,
a little larger than a boot box.
So can someone tell me HOW that tiny techno box
produces the agonies that are a Friday Night Karaoke Party?
The bass is booming throughout their floors,
our floors.
And the walls are pumping with the YMCA song.
And gosh, Uncle Joey got up to the mic
And started belting "Young Man"
like he was screaming at a fruit salad that just dissed his new boxers.
I didn't know what to do.
It was 2 a.m. and I gave up on getting any sort of sleep.
The lights circled my room like the paparazzi were trying
to ask where I got my left knee cap from.
And Aunt Marcy's' voice echoed in my ear like
one of those announcements over the PA that asks people
not to push the pull door.

And at this point I was so fed up with the neighbors
and their stupid, loud, annoying, bedazzled karaoke machine –
I mean, really? 
Who in their right mind does the YMCA at 2 a.m.?
Who belts it out with love past midnight?
There was only one thing left to do.
The final option.
I did the YMCA in frustration –
matching Uncle Joey's pitch, just out of spite.