poem

 Night Time RoutineI want to hug my damn son againAnd feel his little form unstiffen Just like old, when he smelled Of warm mittensFresh from the dryer.The sound of his little feetThwocking across the floor to meWhen I ’d come home at nightLate from the hospital.I want to squeeze him so tight.I want to sit on her bedAnd read to my pre-teen daughterOur old bedtime routine.I ’d even let her chooseThe book or the poem,Anything from my collectionOf mystical runes.She didn ’t use to scroll her phoneOr ask me fora little privacyIn the minutes before another day died. I don ’t want them to end up like meForgetting what it ’s like To feel you can let yourself go,To collapse into the armsOf love or melt into the soundOf a reliable voiceOf soporific solace.I've grown too hard to be truly huggedAnd there are too many stacks of booksLeft on the nightstandI can only read to myself.10/7/21

Source: Buckeye Surgeon - October 7, 2021 Category: Surgery Authors: Jeffrey Parks MD FACS Source Type: blogs