And this is a very short poem.
About bedtime routines in the household.
Children going to sleep.
Bedtime.
Usually I stay up late.
My time alone.
Tonight at 9:00, I can tell I'm only awake long enough
to put my sons to bed.
When I start to turn off lights, the boys are puzzled.
They're used to entering sleep by ceding to me.
Their hum and fizz.
The way they give me $0.50 to hold,
so they can play without money.
I'm their nightlight.
I'm the bread baked while they sleep.
And I can scarcely stand up.
Dry in the mouth and dizzied by fatigue.
From our rooms, we call back and forth
to the worn magic of our passwords,
and let one another go.
In the morning, Sebastian asks, who
was the last to fall asleep?
And none of us cares or knows.