It all comes down to this he said,
Curious. That it all should come down.
That it, in its sprawling it-ness,
could, or would ever be, felled.
The whole shebang.
The whole enchilada.
Kaput.
Perhaps he meant this:
the wide world shrunk to one room
where everything that matters is
this man, sleeping, his two hands
wrapped around the baby,
knees akimbo on his chest.
The heat of their bodies.
The pull of her arresting
the clocks,
the phone,
the traffic.
