Steve Klepetar
Before Bed
Bleary-eyed at nine o’clock,
I struggle to stay awake,
book slipping from my hand
as I climb out of myself,
wander in moonless dark
toward the pond,
where a million frogs
break their throats in velvet air.
Steve Klepetar‘s three-year-old granddaughter looked out the big window at the back of his house and said “I love your view.”