He listens for the sniffle
that precedes a sob
or the first low note
of a siren's cry.
He's poised to rise
and climb the stairs
and lift the trembling body
off the floor and cradle it
until the little limbs untense
and the tears subside
and the message of his firm hand,
it's OK, your dad's here,
arrives at the core
of the sleeping boy.

But not tonight.
Whoever fell out of bed
either hauled his blanket with him
or slid back in without a sound,
and dad can let his eyes drop down,
his own tired weight to settle
into the chair at the head
of the kitchen table
in the perfect silence
of his house of boys.