The Whistle

The sound of my five-year-old  
grandson's whistle pierces  
the hall half-past his bedtime
 
Sounding it staves off fingers  
of sleep like a Calvary charge  
against a nocturnal army  
 
His sabered flashlight slices
the advancing darkness in faith  
by an innocent make-believe
  
As I write, every moment I'm silent  
in pretense of not hearing, he retains  
a millisecond of childhood hope;  
 
Of superhero strength and imagination  
prevailing over shadowed crouchlings  
in the walled corners of his room    
  
In the brevity preceding dreams  
he is Batman in his closeted cave  
winning against adult mortality  
 
As just one guardian of his galaxy
I try to teach the aching tenderness  
of bending and patient dismissal  
 
In tiny increments such as half-past not
hearing a piercing whistle down the hall
~