At 7:00 AM I hear the padding of miniature feet
on wood floors to my right.
It is the youngest.
Not yet past the ache of sleep.
He sees me working on the couch in the living room,
stumbles towards me
and quietly throws himself into my lap.
My throat tightly chokes back the joy of it.
I smell his hair, still sweet from the womb.
Then a thin urine odor – offset by diaper chemicals
and my own classically conditioned affection for
baby pee from similar recurring stimuli.
He is perhaps the only clear reason
for my otherwise insignificant life.