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 have 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.