while my son sleeps hind up,
drool dripping from his open mouth.
Exhausted, I type, edit and retype,
intent on expressing long-stuck words
about my apartment, my missing grandfather.
My poem unfolds beautifully, she says -
my best friend - ever encouraging, helpful;
but intense revision and story elaboration
makes poetry messier than this floor
strewn with legos cars and balls.
Frustrated, I firmly finger my temples.
one foot jabbing his VTech laptop.
I reach it after it shouts
"I like music!" and electronically beeps
the tune of Three Blind Mice;
then he's up, crying, rubbing eyes.
I rush to the kitchen, kicking
one of three shape sorter cubes,
half-hurdle the tall wooden gate
and fall into the refrigerator door.
When I return with a bottle
Equis sleeps already, my poem waits.