The Empty Bed

It’s not the cards folded

by tiny Hands;

Or the bus ride

Across farm land;

Not brown paper sack,

Of Get Well cheer,

clenched like treasure 

to keep it near. 

It’s not running

up the stairs

two steps at a time;

Or my mother

At the top,

Adjusting the blinds. 

I can't turn the knob,

Can’t push through,

There’s no way

To get the cards

To you.

 

The March wind

tells me I’m alive. 

Fresh air forever

reminds me you’re 

Not there.

It’s the “absence of”

That has me torn,

the crisp ironed 

bedsheets

missing your form;

It’s the empty bed.

(It’s the empty bed.)

Not TV

slicing silence 

While I pick my 

fingers,

Wondering

where he’s gone 

How long grief

Will linger. 

The stark-sun 

Reminders,

lights left on,

I can’t Catch you 

No matter how far

I run. 

Not the long walk 

Down the hall,

Not my aunt waiting,

for “the talk.”

She tells me ‘bout Jesus,

Of Heaven’s better days,

Until I ask her,

“Can I go out and play?”

The March wind

tells me I’m alive. 

Fresh air forever

reminds me you’re 

Not there.

It’s the “absence of”

That has me torn,

the crisp ironed 

bedsheets

missing your form;

It’s the empty bed.

(It’s the empty bed.)

(C) 2024. BMI

[outro]

It’s the “absence of;”

the empty bed.

(It’s the empty bed.)