Snoring Poem by Hans Ostrom

A motorcycle gaggle guns its snarlers
into Larynx Tunnel. Then a nearby sea
seems to sigh. The engines rumble once
again. The process repeats in a crude
rhythm as the one lying next to you or
the you who listens to you subconsciously
waits for a crescendo to seize the terrible
song. Whoever is listening waits for a gulp,
a swallow, a sigh- a break of some kind
that will invite soft silence to settle
like a dew on the slumbering cacophonic
heap of prostrate weariness. How
can tired be so loud?