Night watchman
       

Bed by midnight, I set my alarm for two a.m.
At its sound I pad to my son's room.      The floor
is a rubble of clothes, guitar leads, a trophy cabinet
of sticky bowls residue in a corner.

In bed, he holds the glow of his screen,
perched in fear of the grave hymns that sing
in his dreams.      He says he's okay, without shifting.
I fail by saying 'try to get some sleep'.

I retreat to my bed, risk an hour.
At three he's still glowing. Says he tried.
I know.                        Best rise for a time.

I wipe last night's words from the kitchen table.
We eat cereal to silence, see if that works.
It's being tested with everything else outside
the covers of a book.      Back in bed,

he turns to the wall. Now I stay, see him to sleep.
At the inhale of day, the sun cracks its knuckles
behind the curtains.      'Come on then,' I say.

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Copyright © 2018 Peter Raynard All rights reserved
from Precarious
Smokestack Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission