Squeaky crawls the moon’s light
Falling briskly against the chinks in the window
A voluble accompaniment to
An out-of-work cello.
Scooting, crawly insects beat against it
With a frenzy of scrawled brevity
Tattooed on its soft shell.
Horns bleat somewhere in the inky distance.
Town criers bellowing news to a somnolent brain.
Alternatives roll away from eyes
Cemented closed with a.m.’s dream glue
And the clinkety-clank of Sir Gawain’s armor
Makes its way into the room.
Declaring additional valid seconds
Feet flopping like pimpled pancakes ready for turning
To the cold floor
The morn ready to mourn another day.