TO THE SPARE BEDROOM
Tipping and tired, I crawl under the blanket
to rest my head
Ahhhh, 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 your nose to stop
the nasal thread
In desperation, I reach over to softly squeeze
the culprit as I’m lead
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 a sleeping throat could 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
Cricket Concert: My Jamming Garage
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.
ABANDONED ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD
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.
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