Read My Lips
at the end of the table.
They just aren't as keen
as they once were.
waiting for a sound
to be swept
up and carried
But the wind
Maybe it was the roar
from the jets
as he trudged
protecting a country insistent
on making the same
Coming home to find himself
among all the people
he loves the most.
What happened to
and why are we powerless
to stop it?
They miss the click
of his pen
from the morning crossword puzzles,
and the afternoon news
that remind him the world
will always be one step
ahead of him.
But most of all,
they miss the song
that wakes him from his armchair.
Only this time,
the other line rattles
They imagine its happy birthday Papa
and that maybe it's just as crooked
beautiful as they remember.
They can't hear the words
out of his mouth to whisper
I love you,
but even with a broken
the words still ring
Soft hands pry open crooked doors to see
if she is still there beneath heaps of light.
Lost in time, stuck on a coffee stained word.
She moves over, so I can feel her heat.
When creaky floorboards squeak and windows flee
from dull latches, darkness sneaks in and bites.
Her soothing voice chirps-she is my songbird.
She combs my wet tangles, being discrete
to catch any drops before they run free.
She's there when fragile things crumble and night
time feels long; when innocence becomes blurred.
Soft whispers to try to always stay sweet.
You won't want my help when you grow older.
I will - should have meant it when I told her.