Night Time Routine
I want to hug my damn son again
And feel his little form unstiffen
Just like old, when he smelled
Of warm mittens
Fresh from the dryer.
The sound of his little feet
Thwocking across the floor to me
When I’d come home at night
Late from the hospital.
I want to squeeze him so tight.
I want to sit on her bed
And read to my pre-teen daughter
Our old bedtime routine.
I’d even let her choose
The book or the poem,
Anything from my collection
Of mystical runes.
She didn’t use to scroll her phone
Or ask me for a little privacy
In the minutes before another day died.
I don’t want them to end up like me
Forgetting what it’s like
To feel you can let yourself go,
To collapse into the arms
Of love or melt into the sound
Of a reliable voice
Of soporific solace.
I've grown too hard to be truly hugged
And there are too many stacks of books
Left on the nightstand
I can only read to myself.
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