We came upon them in the living room

Where they had made

Their last stand.

 

Four young soldiers of the day;

They must have succumbed some time in

The “wee hours” of the night.

They held Him off as long as they could

With loud activity;

And by leaving every light in the place

Turned on.

 

Sleep,

Like a powerful army,

Conspired with the night

And besieged their lair.

He sent his emissaries through the windows,

And the cracks around the door,

And overpowered them.

He ignored the bright lights,

And arrested their frenzied movements.

They gave a gallant fight, but in the end,

He won.

He piled their spent bodies where they lay,

Haphazardly,

Grotesquely,

Beautifully;

Their limbs entangled with limbs,

And blankets,

And potato chip bags.

The games and puzzles on the floor

Give mute testimony.

And now, finally, all is quiet.

 

All is quiet

Except their soft breathing

And the hiss

Coming from the snowy T.V. screen.

 

                                                            J.J.B. Dec. 1994

 

 

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