A poem

There is a little boy in my bed,
Sleeping in his papa's spot.
He has Midas' curls and sweat on his neck.
He is a sun-warmed peach.

He cries out mid-slumber.
It's my name he hollers.
Before I can make it up three flights,
He settles. He drifts.

How many times has he called my name?
Grains of sand. Stars in the sky. Days of a life.
How many more times will he say it?
I can't say.