poem

 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.

10/7/21