The sound of engines revving, early dawn —
a Maserati prowling through my dream?
A Lamborghini tearing up the lawn?
An Aston Martin's low, insistent scream?
Or something darker: Spitfire overhead,
a Mustang banking hard against the grey,
the Messerschmitt my grandfather once fled,
a Phantom screaming down to start the day?
I surface from the sheets, heart at my teeth,
and pull the curtain back to see the threat —
the gardening crew, already underneath
the frangipani, chainsaw silhouette.
Not war. Not wealth. Just Tuesday, pruning trees.
The revolution's just a morning breeze.