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Personal Note:

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Poem

Ten after four in the AM. I wait for
my daughter’s death with a cup of coffee
at the kitchen table, thinking maybe
tonight’s the night.
She hasn’t been breathing well at all,
all day and tonight I fear just might be
her time.

Her oxygen concentrator is set at ten liters
the highest it’ll go.
Bringing oxygen up the staircase to her bedroom
through a tube to a nasal cannula in her nose.
Now and then it makes a funny squeaking sound
sort-of like a mouse crying out stuck on a glue trap.

I’d much rather write one more poem about those tattoos
she came home with all those years ago that pissed me off
to no end, but.

This is my life now, and like a true democrat, this poet
embraces.
Never let a good crisis go to waste, so I write this poem.

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