(my son, 4)
Quiet footsteps
& people leaving rooms
talk in whispers–
curtains drawn slowly
across his falling lids
as colours fade to
black in Lawnmower Land
a place where he can
drive a large truck
inspecting garbage bins
unhindered by grown-ups
in a heaven of motors
vents & sewers–
all with my son
in charge
Weedeaters trim
his long eyelashes
as i sit far off
reading in another room
unable to stop
the demons of wheel-dreams
from rolling over
my little boy’s brain