a prayer you'll talk again

You laid my limp little body in its bed,

carrying me up new-construction steps

when I was only pretending

to be sound asleep.

You are not pretending.

Just from where I’m sitting,

I count five wires hanging off your bed,

your arms, your socks—

mustard yellow socks with grips

so you don’t slip when they stand you up.

I squeeze your strong, slim hand

with my long, skinny fingers.

You can still squeeze back

with your left hand.

I got my fingers from you,

my love of salami and Sherlock Holmes movies,

my endless supply of questions.

Some would call them obsessions.

I wake you from fragmented dreaming

to offer you unsweet iced tea.

I really wish you’d tell me

to just let you sleep.