Snore

I haven't written this yet (as I type this sentence), but here's a poem inspired by the church men's retreats and family retreats that we have each a year:

Without fail, every year
the snorers strategically place themselves
at lest one per room.
Some years I remember my ear plugs
and even a fan to drowned it all out.
some years, I forget
some years, I regret
this year, I was on the bunk directly above my obligatory snorer
The year of the Drew had to be the worst
-worse than a freight train as if I were laying between the tracks as it passed overhead
I would try to trick myself into imagining that I was off in a cabin and
some old man was sawing logs in the distance, but invariably,
that old man would saw louder & louder until he started to choke to death
and then it turned out he wasn't actually sawing or choking,
but rather trying to start up his Harley.
Unfortunately, he was successful throughout the night at starting
and restarting that motorbike.
It wasn't off in the distance either.
The Harley was in my ear canal.
It's ironic that going to a church men's retreat would inspire me to want to kill another human.
Why would I fantasize about smothering a guy in his sleep?
After all, I'd just be putting a choking old man out of his misery.