Friday at Bedtime

I’m laying in bed, a child

On each side,

As one kicks and rolls, the other flops and

Rustles, trying to sooth themselves

To sleep.

A trickle of sunlight below the

Blinds disturbs the careful darkness,

But the room is quiet

Except for the muffled strum

Behind the wall.

I think someone is practicing

Guitar.

I can hear singing, too, and

The same chords again, but now I think

It must be the TV.

A synth joins the mix and I wonder

If more people

Have arrived. A group of friends on a

Friday night gathering around the

Coffee table.

It must be the TV. The synth drones

On like a galaxy

Twinkling in the distance, and it keeps

Shimmering like the near silence just

Before the roar at the finish line.

Like the slow motion scene in the midst

Of an action movie

As we wonder what will happen

Next. An elbow cracks through my

Ribs and ripples to the other side of the bed.