Four in the morning.

Little bud across the hall

is shouting 

DA-DA

from his crib,

static on the Vivaldi

in my nearly snuffed dream where

a hall of doors

open and shut in unison.

The subtitles are Arabic,

the connection hot-wired

from my neighbor’s apartment.

Behind my couch the line grows

through the wall to watch

the training video, a collection

of scruffy-necked slims

who believe fatherhood,

with its weed & binkies,

is something

that can be taught.