my dreams are torn
a sound like jets
my wife lies awake
but I'm not yet.
back into slumber
quiet resets
then again it comes
and again they're wrecked
she's reading her book
while I am still sleeping
each page is a hook
that leaves me seeping
each flip of a page
is a banshee's shriek
a cellulose rage
at her turning technique
the paper cuts
slice my dreams to shreds
all bled out
guess I'll get out of bed
(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)
Chuck Audette
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/saturday-morning-alarm-clock/
