At 1:42am

I bounce my son on my lap
as if we're riding an eight-foot horse.

I'm John Wayne
and he's a nameless child
—probably a Timmy or Johnny or Blaine.

His head bobs to the rhythm
of our imaginary steed.

We're in hot pursuit of bank robbers
or train robbers
or cow robbers
or some different kind of robber entirely.

All I know for sure is we're trying
to run something down.

The Funniest Death

What would you do if I started tickling you and didn't stop?

You'd be giggling
and I'd be giggling
like a couple of maniacs.

Our cackling would eventually
begin to match frequencies
and cadences to sound like one.

Fifty years later
I'd still be tickling you
and we'd be giggling our lives away.

You and I
connected through
touch and sound

And then we'd die.

Giggling.