Late Night Poetry

here I sit
sleeping child in lap
attempting to scribble
something, any scrap 
of thought
still left here at the end
of another long day
attempting to be
litterary
or
failing (always failing) that
to rise above
the low bar set
of
high school poetry
I chase a thought
a fragment of
a sentance well crafted
half an hour ago
while I was too busy
cajoling toothbrushing
with a vaudeville act
involving hand puppets
or some such
silliness
Now, child finally (finally) sleeping
curled up and warm
breath soft and fragrant
as if remembering
in sleep
the many sleepy hours
of his baby days
now, here
a pen to one's self
safe from tiny snatching hands
who want to scribble
inscrutable letters
in this smallest crap
of space reserved for
my thoughts
here, at last
I sit and ask
I had a thought so...
It went just like...
oh!
How did it go?

February 27th 2015

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This is the poem that started me writing again. Scribbled in my diary after a long day, child sleeping on my lap.