He’s jerked awake in the morning
by a sound from inside
one of the dresser drawers.

Pulls it open to find
a tiny family living in there —
he startles them at breakfast, tells them
to keep it down, goes back to bed
to sleep some more
and not to lie in wonder
at the miniature panic he’s caused
across the room, not to lie in wonder
at tiny people scrambling to hide
among his socks.

That tiny people live furtively
amid his domestication
and it is not a source of wonder to him
is in itself a source of wonder.

He may think
upon rising again
that it was a dream,
his waking was a dream, the faces
upturned in horror a dream, the diving
away from the light a dream.  Or
he may believe he was awake.
He may now believe in the little people
quite sincerely
and decide that they
have been present for his entire life
and he only now sees them.
He may consider his sudden ability to see them
a sign of maturity.  He may tell himself
that these wonders that came to him unbidden
are wonders common to all
if they all would just open their eyes. And
he may fall back asleep pondering
the potential uses of such a family
to darn his socks, arrange his drawers,
care for his small desires, fulfill
need he will have to invent…
right now all he wants
is for them to be quiet
while he tries to sleep.

That’s a source of wonder.

That he does not care to know them
or learn more about them,
ask their names, apologize
for the interruption, offer
to make amends,
that he goes back to sleep
as soon as possible
is a source of wonder.

That this has all happened before
and happens over and over
is a source of wonder —
someone, anyone,
get to those little people somehow
and tell them
to run while he’s still
asleep.