Quiet at the Edge

At the table, noise spills like soup,

a boiling mess of clatter and raised voices.

The youngest flinches, lip trembling,

fists tight around the chipped plastic cup.

Words collide and crash like brittle glass,

and the smallest pulls back, shrinking small,

pressing into the corner of a chair,

shoulders folding like a book left unread.

No one sees the quiet folding in,

the room too loud for the softest voice,

only the plastic cup clutched so tight,

a tiny island in the roaring night.