Quiet attempts at whispers

and pitter-patters to the toilet,

trying to avoid

getting caught staying up.

And I hope somehow

I’ll be allowed to miss

that wherever, whenever

I end. 

 

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Or someone reading me

while next to a hallway

open to kids’ rooms

or a heart open to the past

will remember for me.

How many nights after diapers

and before middle school

could this represent?

Yet I’ll have to yell

in a few minutes

so they can drift to dreamland

and one less day

as mine.