So I Write A 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.