This works.......................

Nightingale 

Tony Morris 

When our daughter was a baby,

she’d sometimes cry and cry,

raw-throated nightingale heavy

on evening’s shoulders,

no solace in the rocking lullaby,

warm milk, blue velvet blanket,

nor in the whispered words,

the quiet shush we’d loose

while pacing back and forth

across the wooden floors.

Until one night, by chance,

we needed diapers,

and my wife, as tired

as I and needing, if not rest,

at least another’s voice to sooth

the small disquiet in her chest,

lifted Morgan from the crib,

bundled her against the cold,

and together we walked out beneath

the stars that pulsed

against the winter’s crisp

and piled into the car.

And halfway to the store,

heater blowing warm against our feet,

we noticed the muffled

wind that faintly buffeted the glass,

the slapping, even rhythm

of the concrete seams we crossed,

and the silence-but for heavy breathing

coming from the car seat in the back.