At 2 a.m.: A Poem for Ruth

AT 2 A.M.: A POEM FOR RUTH

Quietly

you enter,

and with feline

stealth, pick your

way through the

darkness of

our bedroom.

My senses,

honed

over the years

like radar to

hear the pings

of children’s cries,

pukey wretching,

and troubled

hearts and spirits

detects you

as you silently

remove your clothing,

the wisp of your

nightgown falls

with a slight breeze

over your

outstretched arms,

you slip within the

sheets. “Are you

sick?” I quietly

ask, as I turn

my warm body

to embrace the

coolness of yours.

“They were overstaffed,”

you softly reply,

and I slip contentedly

back to sleep,

our marriage bed

complete.