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.