In the dark, old men are snoring.
One of them grunts a sharp, unending cadence; fiery
                                             words
indistinguishable from daytime scream
but in the dark, they sound like
babies, trying to tell me they are lost.

I cannot help, so I just weep.

In the dark, now, Father is snoring.

©  Copyright, 1999; Malcolm Beckett