PoetryAloud

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Rhonda L. Brockmeyer Reads Carl Sharpe

grief, like children

sorrows tap-tap on the window glass
when shadows cool the autumn dusk
I have closed the night. you may not come in
so it is with them--persistent and gentle

and used to getting their way, like a child
with sad face who taps on your knee.
read, look away, tell him later, later,
but the rhythm and the chant say--now

and you off to bed them in the darkened room
and they do not sleep, and you do not sleep,
for you have succumbed, let memory in
and you do not sleep, and cannot sleep again

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