to this youngest of my sons of my jaded middle-age
as he sleeps like a furnace swaddled against my chest.
His mother steals a few hard hours alone in bed
with all her senses turned to “Off.” His nearest brother
naps in the mid-morning light of a quiet Sunday
while their older brother raptures at Church with Nana.
I rock and wonder what songs he will return home with,
what troublesome doctrine he will echo the simple fringes
of as his blue eyes widen with the retelling and his voice
grows loud. Now I start humming something else,
something steady from a long time ago.
First appeared in Eunoia Review - September 13, 2015