Stuck On You

Poem By Werner Schmidt

Steam rises from my cupped hands.
Sickle Moon dances on my black rooibos tea.
Dirty, orange City Night Sky.
Trying not to blink. What am I looking at?

On a slow, hot summer afternoon
we watched our little prince flash
from his favourite branch and
smack down onto concrete.

Two weeks later, we were entertained
to our fairy's maiden flight.
A miracle as she flew from a picnic branch
to an inner-city emergency ward.

If angels are
to carry our children down to earth
why should they be in such a hurry?

What if our children grow to live
the lives they were born to?
What if we need every wound?

I go back in. Check in on our two
Naughty Angelic Express passengers.
My hands feel warm chests rise and fall.
Subtle djembe drumming reassures my palms.
At the window, Sickle Moon peek-a-boos
from behind clouds.
Next to me, a row of well-worn toy cars
stands opposite scattered dolls.
Sickle Moon disappears from the window.
Distant Dog barks
moments before Midnight Train's whistle.

Oh, how blessed my solitude
on one little condition -
that I see you again.

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