We giggle at the thought
of that peculiar snoring sound.
Suddenly, I miss home.
Sitting in your arms, I make
the same analogy. Tom & Jerry
and old cartoons with feathers
following the breathing patterns of a sleeping
You pretend that's me,
but I only talk in my sleep.
You're the one who lightly grizzles.
You're not as obnoxious as my dad, who was always
sitting on the couch or a chair back home,
snoring like a storm despite how many
folded socks I tossed at him.
I know you're missing how your dad used to snore
on long afternoons, lazily watching golf on TV.
I soothe you while you're sitting
in your chair: send my fingers
through your hair, let you morph into
a child- helpless and wanting- until you fall
asleep with your head buried
in my neck.
Then I hear the light breathy whir- the sound
of your snoring in the afternoon.