I guess my grief
is like an open wound.
It seems never
to heal over,

my son,
seeping all
over my soul
with its hurt and pain,

as if all
was happening
over again.
Five days forever branded

in my mind and heart:
Thursday to Monday,
haunts and repeats
the images and events

and the ward
and the waiting
and you
-you so patient,

-so stoic-
I wondering
if this circus of care
will lead anywhere.

Your final breath,
then death,
and an ever repeating
Monday of the same

soaks in
my heart and mind.
How are things,
on that side

of the curtain?
Do you visit
when you can?
I guess you do

-you my stoic son,
being there,
watching, seeking
to make me

hear or see,
that you are fine
and all is
as it's seems

must be.
An open wound
my grief,
the ache seeps

in soul's span,
you my son,
my stoic man.