closes his eyes jittering
in his seat though even
when his eyes are open
he is here and not here
listening like some creature
close to the earth
to the sounds of something
ancient, an approaching
quake, perhaps. Though
we share this planet
it is not the same, even our
moons differ, the old
laughing face a knot
of a fist he fights with his
night light. He throws
back his head laughing
at god-knows-what, though
nothing funny is going on,
and his eyes water, he
cackles, the budgies moving
nervously along their
perch. Sometimes he speaks
of his family as though we
are not, when in fact we are
not, the very shelves of the
earth shifting and rubbing.
At bedtime we insist that he
not get out of bed, though
once the lights are out, we
ignore his puttering
around: the chattering,
the rearranging of his bed,
his room, his life, all
shifting under his clattering
feet. Then, silence. We
feel him pressing his ear
to the floor, listening, he
says, for what’s coming, what’s
coming to steal him away.
