Mommy, when do the bad guys sleep?
asked my girl from her pillow,
long adolescent form snug
in a flannel pair of white pajamas.
Mommy, do the good guys ever kill anyone?
she wondered, visiting me at 2 a.m.,
shuffling down our dimly lit hall
in lime-colored oversized fuzzy slippers.
Mommy, I don’t ever want to die
because I love this place
she said, spilling tears from brown eyes
into Cocoa Pebbles as the sun rose.