Bedtime

Usually I stay up late, my time

alone. Tonight at 9

o I can tell

I'm only awake long enough

to put my sons to bed.

When I start to turn off lights

the boys are puzzled. They're used

to entering sleep by ceding to me

their hum and fizz, the way they give me

50¢ to hold so they can play

without money. I'm their night-light.

I'm the bread baked while they sleep.

And I can scarcely stand up, dry

in the mouth and dizzied

by fatigue. From our rooms

we call back and forth the worn

magic of our passwords and let one

another go. In the morning Sebastian

asks who was the last to fall

asleep and none of us cares or knows.