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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2088755-The-Snoring-Man
Rated: E · Poetry · Biographical · #2088755
Part of for better or worse, I guess.
He lies there,
humped mountain buried under
duvets, sheeted,
on his belly,
face down:
the mountain rumbles.

It isn't always true
about the breathing
becoming
deeper, slower
for his is such that I
would hyperventilate
should I try to breathe that quickly.

Sonorous he is not.
Noise erupts on both:
the in and ex.: hale
of the mighty thunder,
of mountains rumbling,
of winds rustling or blowing--
a derecho in sleep.

Whistles, warbles, puffs of air,
raspberries that ne'er in fruit salad were.
Hums and deep growling
that shake the foundations.
Shoves and pokes exacerbate.
Belly, side, back, fetal; mouth
opened closed--
make no difference.

Never goes to sleep, falls or
goes over the bay.
Awake, flip of switch, asleep
and roaring. Instantly.
Slim, sinuous man in phenomenal shape
for sixty-plus years. Almost indecently healthy;
can out lift, out do, out run
much younger men.

Windows rattle, doors do not insulate,
across the house reverberations
shake the very foundations.
Poke. Roll over. Snore.
Shove, bounce the bed, not even yet
back under the covers
and it resumes.
Such a quiet man when awake.

Sleeps through thunder crashing,
his alarm, the dog ferociously
barking at night terrors or fireworks.
Totally, completely, utterly deafened in sleep.
The mound under the blanket fort
creates sounds the likes
of which no man should make.
We, who are still awake,
can but marvel at the cacophony.

And, according to him:
he doesn't snore--he's never heard it.
Therefore: he doesn't snore.
I could, I suppose,
record him. That wouldn't convince him
and might open the door
to retaliation of a similar kind.

Any wonder I catch naps during the day?


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