You say "I'm an open book",
But you're as closed as your eyes.
Trapped inside your sleepless slumber,
It came to me as no surprise.

I could write a poem about you.
It's true.

But a poem would only make you love me
more than you know how to.

I could write a poem about your eyes.
They're blue.

I could tell the world you make my day all day long.
Nights, too.

I could tell the world all about you.
The world would share my view.

I could say that your days live inside
my heart. They do.

I could write a poem about you.
It would be true. Would you?

r ~ 4/28/14

I could write a poem about myself.
I could write a poem.
I could write.
I could.
I.

r ~ 4/28/14

I look at him
Illuminated  by the dim yellow glow
of warm lamplight

He smiles
reclined and comfortable
in the chair of my youth

His rough unshaven face
carries the lines
of a million good times

His warmth makes
the slightly tattered furniture
look better, more comfortable

He stays up late into the night
telling worn old jokes
still funny

He basks in the love of his family
come to see him
and is warmed

I am carried back
carried to my place
in that chair

Loved and protected
rough whiskers on my skin
always safe with him

Sitting in that chair
always with a laugh
always with a smile

Now the oxygen tube snakes
'round his neck
while he tells stories

But his laugh
is still deep
and loud

The hour is late
and I drink his fine whiskey
that he no longer can

I look deeply
into his sparkling eyes
and know that he will die

But not when he can laugh
and still feel
like a child