You sir, snore as if
there are cavernous wounds in your chest,
my hands deficient healers,
a solvent to solve- a nap as balm
and your lungs rattle
shaking bones and beds and disturbing
the triangular heads of
cats that lie in the cushioned creviced surface,
anchoring our legs at distorted angles.
A mangled, motionless Irish jig.
Your snore the percussive drum.
You sir, snore like the backward winding
of a wall mounted antique clock.
The kids thought that you were a monster
When you disrupted their then
And I laughed to think that such a soft man
Could make such a scary noise,
your Irish lilt always more musical than maniacal.
And now you stir and our feet touch
I remember that tinea rush
travelled from your skin to mine;
so I withdraw. And our iphones fall together
And kiss each other in the morning,
(their cords still anchored to the wall
like fishing reels with the digital morning catch).
Waves on pulled apart doona covers
remnants of the night time elbow battles-
each limbed army not courageous enough
to brave the cold front alone.
Wedding vows did not pledge
sheets from the marital bed.
And in our primal sleep,
me- the goose pimple, you- the Rip Van Winkle
selfish desires overtake romantic begninnings-
for the air is cold and the blankets winnings.
Your hair sticks up- where it is still growing
You- the grey feathered griffon
in your unconscious state.
The disarmed, disrobed, decloaked mythical monster of the married man-
And your snore I liken
to a peaceful roar,
A noisy purr.
A rattle of peace.
To lull me back to sleep