Jack

In the clear,
relative calm:
Peace.
Delicious waves
of sleep
crash piggy-backed
on the next.
Childish security of her quilt-baked tentacles
searching for purchase.
Weightlessness of sleep:
Bubbled dream peaks:
Un-torqued machine: Popped and sprung.
Morphined.
Then a whimper.
An irressistible newborn grunt.
Fighting the TKO:
Not entirely hip to the idea of another night
crib-bound.
Signal ignition,
sputter to life
he coughs:
Lightly. Gently
rising in ire.
My newly christened ears sting,
bitter steam behind each
sucking gust.
Stoking his lungs
for a
series of
brilliant, resounding, yawping
screams.
Stable cadence
until he is in my arms.
snuffling,
rooting for milk.
Crashing a splendid ghostworld party,
we are dressed for the occasion,
our midnight toll punctuated
by an evenflo on the wooden floor.