Watching Over the Tribe

by Ryan Hardgrove

Crawling into the small hours
of morn
my son strapped
alongside
doused in sweet baby piss
dried Elmer’s glue vomit-paste
lacquered into the zipper track
on his onesie

Riding the coat tails
of my 7 month old
and his screaming purity
deep into the night
he validates
foolish nights spent floating
near the void

Or so my selfish
Ego whispers to
My helpless conscience

cigarettes on the porch
smoked blind
street lights pulse
behind blood violet eyelids
warm quiet explosions
between the ears
while
my slumped sag of a posture
warns passer-by’s
not to waste time
on gestures
or notions

back inside
my son purrs
warm golden snores
while blue nightlights
shimmer in the outlets
glowing little fireflies
in cold old January