The wailing human siren's shrill call still pulses
And bends your heart's pumping to its will.
For him it's an automatic alarm, subtly replacing
Words you might use and abuse and shout
To hit the snooze button.
The skin tight box he's locked inside is
Never opened for air or light or any
Favorite things, like those barrel-chested
Bear hugs your father used to give.
When he asks for a milkshake, he's given a pill.
When he leans in to hug you, he's told to sit still.
Then tell the nurse when your fingers burn
From all the pointing at pictures with words
And remember to read them out loud in your head.
No comments:
Post a Comment