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.