I chase you around the house all day

And call your name

Like a record, breaking,

And listen to your cries

As you are placed into your bed

For rest time.

I do not know at which point your cries end and Levi’s begin,

But there they are.

Yours are a melody,

Seemingly with wings,

That fly out over the rooftops of Cold Springs

And into this hazy, humid sky.

And his are the rhythm-

A broken staccato,

An irritated groan with

Intermittent silence.

All day I am chased around the house

By loose pieces of an old bluegrass tune;

By lines of poetry

Leaping out involuntarily

And I can never find a pen.

So I write these lines

In the margins of a cookbook;

On the table with a washcloth;

A subtle tone,

Silent to the untrained ear,

hanging

From the clothing on the line.