His Time
His hand snaked out from under the cover
Fumbling then smashing down on the alarm
Coming alert no job, just doctors now
Each poking, prodding, looking for his end
This morning he feels his eighty-nine years
Stiff joints protest as he lifts himself up
Shaking cold feet searching his slippers out
Protection against the cold, bare tiled floor
He wonders if his wife is watching him
From her billowy white cloud in Heaven
Seeing his weakness, feeling his emptiness
Oh, how he missed her soft touch on his head
He couldn’t recall how long she’d been gone
Only that it seemed like eternity
No more doctors, no not today he thought
As he lay down shutting his eyes once more
Copyright © Madeleine Riha | Year Posted 2017
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