Sleeping Boy

His eyelids twitch.

His lips stay quiet.

His nose itches, but

His fingers don’t fight it.

He tackles dragons

And learns to fly.

He faces his fears

And fears his lies.

He welcomes his muse

And kisses her arm,

Hoping she won’t be

Gone with the alarm.

All the while, I,

The audience, I suppose,

Study every twitch, every

Wrinkle of his nose.

I examine his build, his

Ever-changing expression,

As if we were in

A therapy session.

The boy has no idea.

Poor thing has no clue.

It’s built up inside of me.

There’s one thing to do.

I fetch water from the sink,

Take a sip, and here it goes.

I pour the whole pitcher

Right on his nose.

Screaming, he flies

At me like a twister.

Next time he’ll remember

Not to mess with his sister.