Banging rocks together under red moons,
playing the violin with a straw broom,
throwing rocks into thready branches,
howling, “cockamamie, cockamamie, cockamamie.”
None of this works when she’s forgotten how to sleep.
It must be a race upstairs, three stories,
five minutes in the dark, tracing circles on her back,
mutter and kvetch, half-open door.
If I concentrate hard enough, soon, a gentle snore.
Then, I can put away my velvet hat with the crescent moon.
Now I turn the broom, and sweep the floor.
Cortland Review, Issue 43, 2009
robertdanberg 