Wife of a snorer

My wife doesn't sleep with me anymore.
She says it's because I snore.

She says
sleeping with me
is like sleeping with a
freight train
using five engines to pull
195 railroad cars
filled with trucks,
lumber,
patio furniture,
bricks,
refrigerators,
and ice cream
up and over a mountain pass
it has no business trying to climb.

She says
sleeping with me
is like sleeping next to an
outlaw biker
riding 80 mph down the interstate
on a Harley Fatboy
followed by hundreds of his
leather-clad friends
wearing sunglasses,
long beards,
smoking cigs,
hauling ass and biker babes
to Sturgis for the weekend
and then maybe on to Canada. 

She says
sleeping with me
is like sleeping on an
Air Force base
at the end of the runway while
fighter jets
punch their takeoffs with
afterburners,
screaming engines,
low fly-bys,
strafing runs,
flying on training missions
over the ocean and back again,
or some secret mission to the Middle East.

She says
sleeping with me
is no guarantee of 
sleeping
at
all.

Which is so strange
because I sleep like a log.


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