The 3:23

It ain’t the Phoebe Snow
and
it ain’t the magic carpet made of steel
and
it ain’t a longing from Folsom Prison.

Ain’t nothin’ romantic about
this son-of-a-bitch.

This ante-diluvium,
ante meridiem,
three-twenty-three.

With an air horn
that pierces ear drums,
as a wake-up call,
a disturber of the peace
and a dream stealer.

This mile long behemoth
grumbles through town
with sounds to
warn the wary
and wake the weary.

In direct line of sound
and Doppler sound waves
that let you know:

I am comin’,
I am here,
and I will
leave you with a long good-bye.

TP.