On the Floor

You sleep on the floor with the child
and when he clumsily wakes in his dark
he rolls and throws his back into your belly and head into your chest.
His body finding its mark and place of rest.
you are enough.

The only wrapping numbing your touch to the room,
your thoughts,
hardly deserving such a heavy noun but more
the basal catching of your sub conscious
of the moments you aren’t enough.

But even those dissipate as your arm, draped over his side
moves to his rising and falling,
slowing and easing.
What is left but to feel the warmth of his being?
The soft hardness of the blanket covered carpet.

For the moment you are lucky.
For the moment you are enough.

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