Sleep, she sighs, just a moment away, a hair’s breathing room,
the door to rest closed by the fretting and suckling life
with eyes still adjusting to the constant shifts in light patterns,
more fragile than ancient clay or porcelain dolls whose necks
never instill the fear bone-deep and debilitating to three decades
of life floating along with the tide, responsible for one,
now reduced to a beggar on a midnight street, searching,
baby in tow, sacrificing day for forty winks at sleep’s door.