They have this poem and they're going to put it out there, this infant, and you both agree that it's rather unspectacular, mediocre, just fulfills its natural themes and doesn't mix metaphors too badly. You think it's your worst, and they think it's your best, and this doesn't say much about your ability to rouse someone's soul ("what even the most skeptical still save / for any resolving description of inner life,"" c.k.w.).Bedtime because it's dark. You went to the empty room because keeping him up keeps you up, and you get jealous of his regular breathing turning the air out; sometimes you think he'll distill it all before you even fall asleep, that his breathing is warming the room, that we'd better open every window and get the fans blowing in reverse or he'll have us all in a vacuum.
You know there'll be a phone call in the morning and you'll have to dress business casual and stand in a room full of 7th or 9th or 12th graders, and you'll have to act assertive but composed, serious but hip. You don't know if you can do that. And if you can't, then you'd better get back to brewing coffee for their parents at $7.00/hr.
Erasing racism, engendering awareness--long way down before you go up again. Ambition is similar--the higher you go the longer you're falling. But you'll reach out for ledges. This is one way. Have everyone watch his or her fingers.
Giggling downstairs lacing the thick air, air that presses on your face and makes the pillow suck on you. Yelling sleep into the heel of your palm won't work. Just breathe.
