It's a strange time. 3am. There are some who think the only place to be at this time is fast asleep. For some it is the nagging reminder that sleep eludes them and that morning and it's worries are not far away.
For some it can be a time of magic and mixed metaphors. A waking dream of an endless moment where anything is possible.
My metaphors were crashing the other night. I had fallen asleep in the chair. I half woke to the sounds of Barry Manilow running through his catalogue of hits in a concert from Broadway a few years back.
My mind was mixing this with early holiday experiences , listening to pop music fight the sound of crashing waves on extinct transistor radios.
In there somewhere , a memory of a stereo recording of a thunderstorm over Chicago.
Captured on vinyl sometime around 1956 , it's purpose was to sell the potential of Hi-Fi to the undecided.
Somehow , around 3am , all this meshed together into the poem below...
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