POETRY: Dave Stringer


I return to my tired hotel room:
the empty tv, papers sprawled on the desk,
a book begun on the plane
the morning newspaper still waiting.
Athletes crowd in with me
sporting new kidneys, new hearts,
a lung or two, a pancreas.
Some have emerged from comas.
Others were down to their last few days.
Some carry a pink gift received
when just a few weeks old,
their first glimpse of our shiny world
extended into this life of detail.

I dump my load of notes on the bed,
consider another cup of coffee
and my waiting keyboard.
I take off my shoes and decide
to call home. Your voice
is so you. In your warm tones
I feel your embrace, smell your clean hair.
We talk about nothing - your day, my day,
our granddaughter's ten steps in a row,
the vacuuming skills I lack and prefer
not to discuss. Words now do not matter,
only your heart transplanted to mine.

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Last updated on: Friday, 05-Feb-2010 10:05:42 EST