At 2am - a Poem For Ruth

Quietly you enter, and with feline stealth, pick your way through the darkness of our bedroom. My senses, honed over the years like radar to hear the pings of children’s cries, pukey wretching, and troubled hearts and spirits detects you as you silently remove your clothing, the wisp of your nightgown falls with a slight breeze over your outstretched arms, you slip within the sheets. “Are you sick?” I quietly ask, as I turn my warm body to embrace the coolness of yours. “They were overstaffed,” you softly reply, and I slip contentedly back to sleep, our marriage bed complete.