Epiphany poem | J.D. Olenslager

The polite snorer

Sometimes, when I’m wrapped
up and waiting for the alarm,
a murmur, like an owl’s
white wing, escapes your lips
and sifts along the bedclothes.
The slightest of rumbles
like a tire moving
gravel along the blackened asphalt
outside the apartment window.

And even though you are still sleeping,
unaware of the of the tenor
cleft between your trembling lips,
I dream
about who might be in the drive
at this time of night, long after
the moon has spooned over the black
and starless sky, and wait.