The Roommate
She always keeps her TV on Something soothing usually An old Star Trek or Murder She Wrote Aliens with rules and criminals confessing To a very disappointed Angela Lansbury Flares of brief gunfire or phasers Ads for mattresses and vitamins and Bundling insurance Dialogue paints her apartment by day Screen-glow becomes her nightlight If the box shuts off anytime she’s sleeping She wakes at once Rest ruptured by the sudden quiet As in rushes the tide All the thoughts the filler noise crowds out The questions in the doorways and Memories in the popcorn ceiling Last moments that won’t stop appearing Each time she shuts her eyes All she can do is dive for the remote And hit buttons for dear life To drown the awful Relentless Silence
The TV shutting off while she is asleep got under my skin so fast. That sudden quiet…
The poem reads like a gentle, painfully human portrait of someone who’s learned to fear silence because silence leaves them alone with everything they’re trying not to feel. The constant TV isn’t a quirk it’s a lifeline. The familiar shows, the soft glow, the predictable voices all create a kind of emotional buffer that keeps the darker thoughts at bay. When the screen goes quiet, the room fills with memories, questions, and ghosts she’d rather not face, and the poem captures that moment of panic with heartbreaking clarity. Her scramble for the remote feels almost instinctive, like reaching for air after being pulled underwater. What makes the piece so touching is how ordinary the setting is an apartment, a TV, late‑night reruns yet inside that simplicity is a whole storm she’s trying to manage. It’s a reminder that for some people, quiet isn’t peaceful at all; it’s the loudest thing they know.