Those hours...

( for my old hospice patients )

The silence is disrupted by the tick, tick, tick.
Maybe a car horn or siren of a passing vehicle of altercation.
Fix the pillow, adjust the blanket, find a new position.
It seems those hours are the hardest.

Where was I that I remembered these thoughts?
What did I experience that it should play so heavily on my altered state of mind?
Dreams so vivid that I remember every detail.
Night sweats so profuse that I wake up soaking wet.
It seems those hours are the hardest.

Sitting still and expecting some kind of interruption;
the phone to ring, a door slamming, a TV to be lowered.
What to do now, where should I go, who can I talk to?
It seems those hours are the hardest.

The rain is heavy and the temperature is cold.
Looking out my window, the birds are all gone.
The front door looks so far away,
but the edge of my bed is but inches from my escape.
I’d jump and run if only there was a destination.
It seems those hours are the hardest.

Where did everyone go?
Where does everyone meet?
Why can’t I be there?
Why don’t they ask me?
It just pieces of Kodak paper and memories left,
that’s all that stayed behind.
It seems those hours are the hardest.

Copyright © 2007 Ronald J. Edwards