A house needs a sleepy rocker
with pendulum momentum.
Curved bows of feet
should graze the wall sometimes, dent the carpet,
and bear weight
to let the neighbors know they're not alone.
Upstairs, someone else marks time in socks.
Singly, with a book or infinity thoughts
too long for pillows.
Or jointly, with a child too sweet
His fingers in the weave --
the room through hexagons --
his chin on a wide shoulder
against a buzzy, fuzzy jaw.
The afterglow of a rhyme told to the
first born son.