I look at you again, girl, tonight.
You lie topless in front of the fire
in paisley pants enjoying
shadow dancers on the ceiling.
That little man, your brother
already snoring like a professional croup-ear.
We check his every breath. Air in. Wait.
Air out. Temperature. The time since his last
bottom rocket pill.
Princess, what blessed moments.
You are unaware of cultural norms like 34C forms.
You simply tell yourself stories. Jumping, skipping.
Hair streaming in the winds of your imagination.
And now, you pause for a moment.
Eyes smile as I touch you.
My flat hand skis across your skin.
How long will I have you like this?
Maybe if I start checking your breathing
as meticulously as that brave little man's
I might remember, forever -
our coughing Cupid wonderland
featuring our blonde blue-eyed
She, who creates friends and fables from thin air.
Topic(s) of this poem: children,present,time