I wake up scared, afraid to face the stairs.

Your smile reminds me we’ve but one story.

 

I worry if the shower’s water's up

my nose, down my throat, fills my chest, drowns me.

You laugh: do not bathe standing on your head.

 

Ah, yet razor risks my neck, my chin.

Your hand soft on my face says just don’t shave.

 

My double sigh now shuffles back to bed,

beneath child blanket, head hard on pillow,

so peeved you stifle sum of all my fears.

 

© Timothy Wright

11/24/2014