Snoring

SNORING
October 28, 2006


The sound of sleeping drops to its
rhythmical haunches, crouches,
stealthily sneaking across the
carpet like a shark over
the blue pile and rounds the
corner; stops; exhales again
as it pounces off the floor
and into my ear.

It rests,
nestles, and purrs like
a great grey-and-black tabby,
rubbing its neck, back,
shoulders against my body.
I want to cuddle it and gaze
into its sparkly, dreamy eyes
and cradle it in my arms.

From the other room the
sound is tame in my ear
and manageable and inviting,
yet I know; how I know!
That when the sound actually rises
to its feet and comes walking
back to me and lies down on
the pillow and turns towards
my ear, I will want to fight
it with everything I have;
guard myself with plastic and
send sentries against the sound
that now, suddenly, resembles,
not a purr, but something
more on the line of noise.