The Sleeping Child
That child is like a washing machine
when tucked within her bed,
Arms and legs flail everywhere
No chance you’ll find a head.
I expect that's hiding somewhere down
where you’d expect to find the toes
Where a noggin normally rests
Well! No one really knows.
You lay her down to go to sleep
The first move is the “wash”
Linen, gets all pushed around
erratically till its squashed.
Here’s the move I call the rinse
This one’s rather tame.
Motion, and then rotations start
But not quite yet insane.
Ye Gods!!
Here’s the start of the spin cycle.
As bed begins to rumble
Thrashes mirrored by crashes
Artistic gymnastic tumbles.
Blankets, pillows, clothes
All flying through the air
One stuffed toy arcs past the light
Whoa!
Had to duck a teddy bear!
Of course she always sleeps
Through all this absurdity
Each morning I lament the fact
that she was tucked in carelessly.
Copyright © Mark Woods | Year Posted 2015
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