Our Infant Cries and I
Our infant cries and I am up again
before the timeclock blares its thoughtless ring
shortly then to find morning, Monday, rain.
Is there nothing more so disquieting?
An empty sock like molted skin lies silent
on the bed and through the glass I hear the hiss
of steel belt tiresdumb workers and their pent
up dreadfading in and out among the trees.
Even the love we made the night before
has drained my body, swamped my head,
and I am swimming through an open door,
one my son yet cannot hear or read,
but one in which he comes, I hope, to see
how loud this routine music sounds to me.