The wind blows from the west and traffic noise
Along the Interstate at 5 a.m.
Three miles away rumbles and annoys
My morning reveries, deflecting them
From what I had been dreaming just before
Or half remembering from my bedtime book,
While ruminations on our ceaseless war
Invade once more my peaceful writing nook.
A siren in the distance undulates
Awakening the first birds sensing dawn,
And soon my pensive mood disintegrates
And my fond hopes for poetry are gone.
Now what I’m left with is complaining verse
Whose only virtue lies in being terse.