October 2010
sitting on the sofa
at two in the morning
nursing the baby and
watching the windows
of the buildings
across the street
noting lights left on
and speculating
who’s home
who’s awake
like a really boring
version of Rear Window
while the animal warmth
and weight of the baby
rests in my arms and
she contentedly feeds
her toasty skin
her hair like fluff
her eyebrows
and peony-bud fists
this sleep-bleared thing
that feels like tedium
will later reveal itself
to have been happiness
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