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.
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