what's next

impatience is my enemy
boredom a secret agent
both conspiring
a hurried ending
to my domestic bliss

a life this easy
can't be right--
they whisper to me
dead of night
the only sound
a soundly sleeping man
beside me
and a restless baby
a few feet away

into his room
I follow his night cries
he's sitting up in the crib
3 am, eyes wide open
greeting me like the summer
sunrise, too damn early

when I lay him back down
he rolls over, grabs teddy,
tucks one hand under his belly
and is asleep

but, I am still awake
writing the next poem
loving the next man
birthing the next baby

wondering/wandering
the next road
while my enemies,
buried each night beneath
simple solace,
plot their next lie

when all I can do
to resist
is remember
that luck won out
over selfishness

granting this wish
no matter the strings attached