Poem

Make the BedThe city sleeps way past dawnDuring the enforced lock down.These morning gray clouds look blanketed,Heaped up, fluffed, unruly.I get that anxious feeling of seeing my unmade bed.A deep itch prompts an obsessional reachFor the sky to find the edges.Then I ’m tugging at the cornersSnapping down the sidesTucking them in tight.The hollows in the billowsOf the duvet are just shadowsBut I smooth them down all the same.The sun lurks, bursting white through gaps.By noon the clouds will have moved onDispersed by spring winds,Burned off by the heat of day.For the sun can be structurally ruinous.What remains--- this clearness, the sun and this blueness, then the moon and the stars so luminous,It ’s almost too much,Enough to ruin us.For the time allotted to prepare always seems too briefWhen the natural world drops its veil and bares its teeth.At night, even the heavens gets cold and wearyAnd need to bundle up for a good night's rest.I can hear the groaning lurch of clouds moving inAs I turn down the bedding and brush my teeth.It ’s time to slide into my squared off cocoonOf blankets and pillows and sheets.Set the alarm, count the sheep.But the drift into sleep is an untightening.The tenets of a delusional order fall away;Pillows find their way to the floorSheets are bunched in a ball by my feetAnd the blankets are nowhere to be found.I always wake up shiveringExposed pale legs,Goose-bumped arms,The scream without a sound,Falling asleep without a shirt.Wake up!The sun b...

Source: Buckeye Surgeon - June 27, 2020 Category: Surgery Authors: Jeffrey Parks MD FACS Source Type: blogs