Death by Annoyance

A sock
isn‘t enough
to make me loathe
his breathing
at night,
I know.
Grey and lazy
near, but not in,
the hamper
it lies alongside
his intermittent gases
and his shouts
of ‘Ha! I knew it!’
at CSI reruns.

Perhaps
the monotony
of his underarm
scratch-and-sniff
or the inevitable
toilet seat flight
gives rise to this,
what could almost be
passion- this urge
to pick up the sock
and stuff it in
his sleeping mouth
with just a pinch
on his bulbous nose
to relish the sweet
silence.