my dreams are torn <br />a sound like jets <br />my wife lies awake <br />but I'm not yet. <br />back into slumber <br />quiet resets <br />then again it comes <br />and again they're wrecked <br />she's reading her book <br />while I am still sleeping <br />each page is a hook <br />that leaves me seeping <br />each flip of a page <br />is a banshee's shriek <br />a cellulose rage <br />at her turning technique <br />the paper cuts <br />slice my dreams to shreds <br />all bled out <br />guess I'll get out of bed <br /> <br />(with apologies to Emily Dickinson - There is no 'frig it! ' like a book being read in bed next to you. Especially when one is, perhaps, a wee bit hungover that morning)<br /><br />Chuck Audette<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/saturday-morning-alarm-clock/
