No time for art

Moulded into the mercies of a routine

He wakes up well before sunrise

Making his way with caution and care

not stepping on the flotsam of toys

With the sound least possible

he turns down the door handle

Closing it behind him stealthy

breaking-in as if, in own home-stead

Finally in the room,

padded by books,

plastered with dreams,

he steps into the world of art

that's been waiting all night.

Nearing the paper and pencil

about to dive into the zephyr

He feels a tinge

familiar yet unlike any

fill him up from within

"This is where I belong

this is who I'm born to be

I can sit here for hours on end

meditating on the pages"

Not long before he is

done with the soliloquy

A sound shrill and sure

fills the stilled morning air

and ears unsuspecting

"Daddy, where are you, daddy?"

 And without a whisper or creaking

he stumbles back into the bed

Without an adieu or a closing ceremony

to the art that's (again) left waiting.

Feeling the breath of his child

on his face, he'll surmise -

Poetry can wait.

Matters of parenting are

never not urgent.

Moulded into the mercies of routine,

he lies in bed staring at the ceiling.

Still a few hours to sunrise.