9-11 Everyday
I wait for the sound of keys at the door,
A prelude to your eyes in mine,
For your presence to affirm me more,
Like the timeless aging of fine wine –
Left un-tasted now, ‘til evermore.
The paper awaits your keenly sage
Review in comforted, shoeless wit.
The subject ever stays unchanged.
At least you’re spared reliving it -
Our story merged on unturned page.
To your return, our kids look anxiously
For jurisprudence and example,
And the reassurance of authority.
Of you they are molded and resemble –
Ever yours, in loving paternity.
Your dinner on the stove, still good,
Awaits adventure on your palate.
It matters less your taste for food,
Than that we share what’s on our plate -
Our table’s set, with thanks to God.
The scent of your life still hangs, you see,
Expectantly in the empty air,
Waiting there to rejoin with me
In that balance of chemistry we share –
Our formula viewed as the enemy.
Time is as short as yesterday,
And as long as just one second.
In our fate, we have scarcely a say,
As to when we shall be beckoned –
For hope and grace, we can only pray.
The world stopped turning on that date,
When rage was lifted over love.
But I refuse to be consoled by hate,
For fear that love be lost thereof –
Like the sun going down on me tonight.
Copyright © Robert Waltrip | Year Posted 2025
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