depending on how one counts, cause size matters, do have I one small blessing
though little do I get, more-less, in each twenty four measuring cup, when the sleep gas has come-for-inhaling, lidded heavy with greatful/tearful anticipation, it’s less than sixty seconds till dispatched to where all poems plead like unborn angels for good parentage
the spoken good night ritual signaled and completed with a perfect half turn skating axel onto ones side, preceded by, a single solid smacking of an innocent but flaccid, equally tired pillow, then lost in pitch black galaxy travels with other sleep-drunk little princes
instead of the wavering, singular word, a traditional goodnight, a parting and a haling simultaneous mumbling issuing, undebated and a wish shot to all within dream-shot, a title,
“good travels”
to places where ferment the aging words under the winemakers watchful caring eyes opening, names or titles, same difference, for the newborn babes