Tipping and tired, I crawl under the blanket

to rest my head

Ahhhhh, the dreamy down and fleece, comfort

for the walking dead

But then, begins the clanking nasal chorus,

spits and sputters I dread

Otherworldly noise that fills the room,

far beyond the bed

How can a nose so small, create a sound

so large and red?

You instructed me to pinch the reprobate,

to stop the nasal thread

In desperation, I reach over to softly squeeze

the culprit as I’ve been led

Three seconds of peace, before the deprived lungs

force themselves to spread

Your mouth flies open, like a baby bird,

demanding to be fed

Who knew the throat would produce a noise

akin to someone being bled

Let this be a scripted testament in the morning

as to why I fled,

to the spare bedroom.

The venue was packed all summer

it was a rave, a slam, a wing sing

A scene alive and vibrating

natives jamming into the wee hours

Musicians caught up in the warmth

performing the sounds of darkness

But now the crowd is dying down

vanishing into cool air

The harmonic tones are gone

and the floor is cleared

It's late September and the Cricket Concert

in my garage has closed for the season

Shredded, splintered and strewn

black rubber scattered along route 81

like so many dead soldiers after battle

They bare the brunt, and brave the potholes

while the brazen beasts roll along oblivious

My daughter was assaulted by one of the militants

driving, unaware of the monster who would

shed his boot behind without even a thought

Smashed to specks, glass encircled her

the car came to an abrupt halt

while the Craven Creature pushed ahead

Leaving the fear behind for her

and the tire abandoned on the side of the road.