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 that 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.

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

the black rubber is 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 and

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.