Thank You, Edgar
His sleep had been deep and restful.
by Michael Morris
He awoke in the still, dark night.
All traces of fever had left him
And soon it would be light.
He felt warm and drowsy and happy,
Glad to be free of the pain
Which had wracked his head and back and neck
In whatever position he’d lain.
Someone had changed his night shirt,
This one was clean and dry.
Not wringing wet with the clammy sweat
That had soaked him in nights gone by.
His pillow was soft and silky,
Smooth, with a trim of lace
Which he felt when he moved his head around
And its tracery caught his face.
“Time to get up, ” he drowsily thought
And he yawned as he always did
And in stretching his arms to remove his sheet
His hands touched the coffin’s lid.