The children are about, though it's late in the eve.
They rustle loose bits about, seething like curious bees
in a marching band that plays a single note on key
and whose idea of order is something shouted at me.
No pencil, no pen, no computer keyboard is free
from tiny spread fingers, each with their own gravity.
I shout them out and they return. A tide upon the sea.
"It's too far late. I have to work. I will count to three,
and strap the brat who thinks he does not need to flee."
Quiet descends in my office and I am, for a moment, pleased
before I realize not one left. They lie in wait like a winter tree.
In the corners. Behind the desk. I still can hear them breathe.
And part of me is quite enraged, the other is quite relieved.
