Early-morning quiet time,
I puff secret cigarettes
in a damp basement,
the webby side of the furnace
where only the cat dares to tread;
every move I make a thunderclap
from a storm coming off the bay,
every board-creak a snapped twig
under the foot of the Skull Island savage.

The children still sleep,
wild in suspended abandon;
arms flailing above their heads
in frozen unconsciousness.
They need their rest
before time takes away
summer’s gift to the child.

They are not mine,
to keep, to hold;
they are not my blood,
but blood is blood
and love is love.