The song of squeaky springs
levers my mind from sleep
as the couple next door
ignore the small hands
of motel clocks creeping
to finally reach their
sheet combat crescendo.
A reluctant listener
my not so young bones
are bathed in static blue
from siren King Cyclops
as he rests his channels
in the pastel corner
giving me respite
from manic presenters
demands to BUY NOW.
I lay wondering in the dark
whether my own blood
was past its use-by date
when the thought occurs
to test the market again.
But my first impulse
is not to check out
the local watering hole
but instead reach
for pen and paper
again defy the dust
that creeps over dust…
