BAD COLD

BAD COLD

 

Sick, and trying to remember

the grandchildren, who started this.

Sick, and thinking of refugees sick

in tents in terrible weather. Sick

and trying to be grateful for clean water,

warm blankets, my blue mug,

tea, fuel to heat the water. Grateful

for music on the radio all night,

the pressure of the dog’s sturdy body

beside me on the bed.

WE HAVE NO WORD

WE HAVE NO WORD

. . . for that feeling when the car pulls away

carrying the children home and the house 

is quiet again as it always is now

except when they come

with their suitcases and boxes and diaper bags

and sippy cups and potty chair,

and we take the portable crib

and the high chair out of the attic

and the blocks and wooden train and smurfs

and drum and tambourine out of the trunk,

and the three-year old takes the big metal bowls

and the measuring cups and spoons 

out of the cupboards and we

take the old picture books off the shelf

and make sure the camera batteries are charged.

And when they go, we put it all back

and get that feeling that has no name.