With body under cuffs
from days of unrest
and mind poisonously stale
from guilty nights spent
away from my wooden,
I bend over sheets,
for time – the wanted,
the suspect, the robber –
is caught in my grip.
I look for light
for my mind wants to fly,
but in the night that sits
I only see empty white.
Parker point scratches
while my eyes stare walls.
I look down for words,
but what I see
my baby could have done.
Another wrinkled ball
joins that hateful bin.
My wife’s aroma kindles
the cement doorstep outside.
Surprise rents her face, for
with paper and pen I sit.
‘A story? A poem?’ escapes,
but not from my mind.
A weak smile. She gets it.
Four little paws crawl
eagerly to my wife. She,
brightening, picks the doll.
Sounds she makes, names
she calls. More Joy is the reply.
When their eyes meet,
I know something happens.
But what it is, neither says.
Evening. Flowers. Music.
Freshened from their sight
I begin again. Words seep:
‘With body under cuffs…’
A tumbler of coffee sits by.
Purity lies on love’s lap.
As two eyes close in peace,
the lullaby carefully shrinks.
Our eyes meet. I know this.
Night.Mattress. Silence.
Enchanting! Especially the part where you say ‘the lullaby carefully shrinks.’ 💙
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Thank you! 🙂 But that is how it happens no.. now and then we see mothers with babies on their lap and singing something… very gradually they bring it to a stop as the baby sleeps 🙂 Beautiful right!
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Yes it is
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