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Bedtime
By
Steven Hoadley
I am 45 now.
Older than what I’d prefer,
younger than how
I feel.
The years, they have been
Fast.
Days marked by
How many cigarettes
I’ve smoked
Months marked by
How many days
I’ve worked
Years marked by
How many women
I’ve fucked
You can tell how well
You’re doing
By the cigarette
To work
To woman ratio.
Put it this way:
I’ve smoked a lot this year.
But there have been changes.
Subtle,
But changes
Nevertheless.
My nephews, for one.
I see them as gods.
Little chunks of walking
Crying
Shitting gods.
They need what they need
And they need it now.
I sometimes deny them what they ask for
Just so I can hear the gods talk.
In the evenings
When their child legs
Have worn down to nothing
And their hearts have weakened
It all becomes exposed.
The heavens open up and speak:
“Uncle Steve, can you beat Batman up?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Uncle Steve, can you beat Superman up?”
“Absolutely.”
“But what if he threw the whole world at you?”
“I’d smash it to pieces and then kick his ass.”
I get them with that one. Silence.
They sit under my arms.
The television hums,
It’s late.
Then Mom delivers the blow.
Bedtime.
There are tears
And complaints
But in the end
They comply.
One by one, they hug me
And tell me goodnight.
And I get one from each . . . .
A Kiss.
A Kiss goodnight.
A Kiss
From the gods.
Copyright © 2006 Steven Hoadley
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