Snoring Afternoon

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

fat man.

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.