It is three a.m..
My eyes chanced to open
And across my bed, outside my window,
From this side of the horseshoe hotel,
Were lights cascading onto
The facade of the inner outside hotel wall.

Were the red; white; green; yellow; blue; white lights a sign
That the aliens were here? -- probing
This particular hotel for their next cornfield victim.

I did not rise to check outside
For fear they would take me next,
And turn me into a probéd husk.

Is this what happens when we sleep?