My father came from
work most nights
long after I was
in bed waiting with
long curls fanned on
my pillow, arranged for him
Waiting with sleep blinking
eyes for him
to lean over
and whisper "goodnight sweet girl"
in tired silibant esses
releasing all troubles of the
day with a brush of his warm
lips slipping me softly into sleep
Those lips sent me warmly
off in safety each night of
childhood following me through
the slides of nights
through times and places and
shifting circumstances
I never tired of him
leaning over me
as that brush of warm lips
smoothed trouble from my brow
And so I rushed one hot summer morning
to catch that warmth for all time
to slug each drop of heat from the fast approaching chill
as finally it was I who leaned over
him
hand on his suddenly, shockingly,
still heart
and whispered "goodbye my sweet"
as he slipped into slumber
while we were both still warm
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