Your Baby Was Asleep The lights were on and you were gone working for your wheat, and the shadow from the minute hand shifted in retreat. And I will write your elegy, “A craftsman at his peak”, if you can tell me where you were when your baby was asleep. I’ve picked up tips and learnt my tricks from professionals on the street. I have my slab and cleaving blade to butcher all my meat. And I will carve the choicest cuts and serve them as your treat, if you can tell me where you were when your baby was asleep. And gentle was the touch of you – your hands, their calming heat, did scatter every demon when your baby was asleep. And now you say to me today, through stained and gritted teeth, that you had tried your utmost to delay the laurel wreath. And thinking of your father’s disapproval makes you weep, because you were not a father when your baby was asleep. And gentle was the touch of you – your hands, their calming heat, did scatter every demon when your baby was asleep.