J.L. Conrad

EACH MOMENT SUFFICIENT UNTO ITSELF

He looks troubled
when he sleeps, and I find
I cannot trust him. Can’t trust
the breaths that

inflate/deflate the lungs, the lungs that required
a small push to start up.

These mindless repetitions,
how each day resembles its others.
As if, by force of will, I could recall them.

I confess that I cannot
see a way forward. Submit
your requests to the proper authorities, affix
your virtual signature
to each virtual form.

I’d kept wishing to go to sleep,
and then the baby could be born, which is
essentially what took place.

Everything you say
will be used against you.

The afternoon we come home from the hospital is hot
and gray. Rain threatens but does not fall.
Light pools on an open page.

The phone rings and a voice says
be calm. You are not going to die. These things happen.

Meanwhile, the toast is getting cold.