return to me at night,
speak to me in dreams
in the language of
      the dead,
hold your little boy tight,
cradle his weeping head.

Stay by the bed with me
in your familiar clothes,
tell me all will be well,
until my fever goes.

Hold my hand again,
take me across the street,
let's sit in the the park a while
until the dark comes on, until
you must be gone.

Once more squeeze me tight,
before you have to go, before
we hear the news
that we're forced to know.

May 28, 1989

All written material © Bill Schechter, 2016
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