Foghorn

Lying awake 

in early morning darkness, 

I listen to

Sonorous bellows, 

like cartoon tubas, 

one note flatter than the next.  

 

By day, they pass unnoticed

drowned out by the rumble of the city,

but in the silence of the wee hours, 

they perform their basso profundo

a symphony for insomniacs,

tantalizingly close

to a snore.