The moon’s light slinks away into its hidey hole volubly accompanied by out-of-tune-cello snorts,
and rueful peeks at the alarm clock.
Horns bleat somewhere in the curtained distance.
Those town criers bellow news to a somnolent brain.
Eyes cemented closed with a.m.’s dream glue,
the clinkety-clank of an aging body dressed Sir Gawain’s armor
rustily wakes and empties Lethe and dreams into wakefulness.
Feet flop like pimpled pancakes ready for turning to the cold floor.