Babysitting

What precious metal,
this child, son of my son.
He knows nothing of how
the body can clinch down on itself.
His is an elastic dance,
a full-tilt giggle caught
in the early slipstream of time.
He slingshots about the walls
and reckless abandon is his brother.
I remember that about his father.

Each night, in my own bed,
I feel the inevitable crone begin her work.
Bones harden, tendons curl
drawing my feet into stone.
Leg muscles tighten and bunch
and I know it will take several strides
in the morning to rise from prehistoric stance.
The weariness that pinches my skin
between bone and bed finally lowers me into sleep.
In the dark I hear the voice
I had as a child call out “mother.”