These Four Walls Poem by David Johnson

If these walls could talk,
instead of standing tall and dumb like quiet white cliffs.
Not saying nothing, like quadruplets deaf, dumb and mute.
If these walls could talk, I'd be less lonely.
These walls are so tall, that I can see a nest at the top;
hearing chirps, wind rustleing and desperate rodent squeaks.
I can even see a soaring, circleing dot,
or is it a mosquito? And is the nest a spiders web?
And are the squeaks mice in the wall?
And the chirps, robins at my window?
These walls are tall like four boys deaf, dumb and mute
kicking around the contents of this room.
Consistant robotic kicks, so that I watch the coach
sail past my head, the chair turn end over end
and I cover my head with a book wondering
when this will end.
These bullies always in my room kicking
back and forth, back and forth.
I write because I fear them.
I am David slinging ink against these four giants.
Sometimes I only see walls.
Walls that join hands to hold up the ceiling.