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 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.
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
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.