Presence

Dark shapes—

Did they move?

Are they still?

What was that sound?

Was there a sound?

Legs aching, back throbbing,

I swim upward

Toward consciousness.

I surface,

Needing to pee.

Whitman called this

“The Long Dark

Night of the Soul.”

Trying to calm myself,

Hoping the Army

Of Self-Doubt,

The Navy of To-Do

The Air Force

Of Regrets

Don’t coordinate their attacks.

Still on the toilet, mostly asleep

The assault begins.

Tomorrow, I have to—

I forgot to—

Just a strafing run.

Then the artillery—

Didn’t go see Mom before she died,

Didn’t do enough for one son,

Did too much for another,

The ordnance lands

And explodes,

Destroying sleep.

Then, I hear soft breathing, or a snore,

I reach over,

And she is there,

Sleeping on,

I throw an arm around her,

Nuzzle close

Becalmed by the knowledge

I am not alone.