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The child loves to go to the park and pick up sticks.
Like a dog, he will try to bring
one impossibly long stick home,
but he is 4 and by 4 o’clock
he is getting tired.
He still will not let go of one end.
He totters to the car like this,
at the carpark
he is actually sleepwalking.
I wake up,
a wandering hermit crab slips back into its shell.
Time concertinas,
the mind plays tricks in too much light or dark.
It’s 4 in the morning,
I’ve been gripping the end of a twisted sheet.
Strange,
but I want to take it home.
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