When he's asleep*

drool slides from his lips
like the trickle of oil from a
sputtering car engine, and I want
to kill him. He’s just a boy in
my bed – an overgrown infant,
snoring and babbling, the crescendo
of nightmare gurgling at the peak
of his throat. I could douse the sheets
with gasoline and watch the flames
devour his frame in a zealous feeding
frenzy; I could wrap my hands
around his throat until his face swells
like a ripened blueberry, bursting
with life. Really

I want to keep him warm, nurse his
dawdling, awkward self –
dress him in yellows, kiss his
cheeks and clean up his
shit in the morning. Really

I’m just hoping I’m onboard
as the train station of his mouth
whistles the arrival of a new
locomotive dream.

* Another edit / revisit